1943
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Hermione had put so much preparation into taking the O.W.L.s that she was shaking on the walk to her assigned exam desk. An inkwell was set into an indentation in the desk, and beside it lay a brown quill, its metal nib stamped with the words 'Patented Anti-Cheating'. There was a cover sheet on the desk marked with the insignia of the Department of Magical Education, the time and date, and the name of the subject being examined. Beneath that was the official exam paper.
When the proctor announced the start of the exam and allowed the students to turn over the cover sheets, Hermione couldn't help but feel disappointed.
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Question 1.a: Discuss the effect of the Stunning Charm when cast on a human wizard, magical creatures (Redcap, Erkling, Dragon), and an inanimate object.
Question 1.b: Give reasons for why the potency of the Stunning Charm may be affected by its subject. Include examples.
Question 1.c: List three common precautions taken when using the Stunning Charm to defend against a subject of unknown quality and quantity.
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All of the questions were straightforward, practical, and phrased in such a way that she could tell what answers the examiners were looking for. Many of the theoretical concepts underpinning the practical magic (which was a separate part of the exam) overlapped with her other subjects.
Anyone who had read about the basics of magical theory knew that the increasing rate of difficulty between Vanishing a button and Vanishing a rabbit was a direct parallel to the difficulty in Stunning a rabbit versus Stunning a dragon. She had studied this topic for her Transfiguration exam, and she ended up quoting from the same authors and textbooks for the Defence exam. She was glad of the Anti-Cheating Quills; if the exam markers noted that her answers were suspiciously similar, the Quill proved that she wasn't copying from a smuggled answer sheet.
Hermione came out of the exam relieved that there hadn't been any surprises.
(A few weeks before the exam, she'd had a dream of turning over the cover sheet and finding that she couldn't answer a single question. She had screamed and fallen out of her four-poster; Twyla Ellerby had tossed a vial of Calming Draught from the stack on her nightstand before going back to sleep, pillow over her head.)
Well, no surprises to her, at least. When she left the exam room she could hear Clarence Fitzpatrick anxiously asking a few other Ravenclaws what they'd put down for Question Sixteen, 'Explain the meaning of a "Counter-Jinx" and how it differs from an "Anti-Jinx". Name an example of each.'
She found herself congregating with the Slytherins in the antechamber outside the Great Hall; she recalled that they'd waited here back in First Year, before they were led in by Professor Dumbledore for the Sorting Ceremony.
"Last exam of the year. Wonder when they'll send us our results," she heard Lestrange saying. "Mother said that if I get seven O.W.L.s, she'd buy me a new broomstick for next year, and I need time to practice. It's Crockett's last year—Sluggy'll have to pick a new Captain and Deputy this summer."
"Pater promised me tickets to the England versus Wales Quidditch trials if I get three or more Outstandings," Rosier bragged.
"My father said I'd be spending my summer learning the ropes at the Auror Dispatch Office no matter what marks I got," said Travers glumly. "I had better get at least five Exceeds Expectations. Or else."
"I've got one exam to go," said Tom, who'd made no mention of parents or summer plans, "so unlike the rest of you lot, I've not yet had a chance to relax."
"What exam do you have?" Hermione asked, joining the group. "They've finished the last of the core exams, so it's only the electives left."
"Muggle Studies," said Tom, his face impassive.
"But you're not even in that class!" Hermione cried. "I've never seen you there!"
"You signed up for that rubbish?" said Nott, his expression torn between a mix of scorn and disbelief.
"I don't take the class," Tom explained, one brow raising slightly at the vehemence of their reactions. "I asked Slughorn to put me on the exam roll as a bit of an experiment, you see. Is it possible to get an O.W.L. in a subject I don't take, provided that I've studied the subject from the textbooks? If it's at all possible, then I might as well keep History of Magic on for the N.E.W.T. next year, since showing up to the lesson is no different from not going at all."
"And Professor Slughorn let you do that?" said Hermione, scowling. She didn't want to feel jealous about it... but it honestly was a good idea. Why hadn't she thought of it too? She wasn't fond of Divination as a magical discipline, but she did quite well in Astronomy, and interpreting star signs and Tarot cards came down to memorising long lists of qualifiers. Care of Magical Creatures was the other Hogwarts elective she hadn't signed up for, but the exam had a practical component on animal handling, and she didn't think she could complete it with nothing but textbook instruction. "That's unfair to the rest of us."
"Slughorn lets me have anything I ask for," said Tom with supreme smugness. With one finger, he flicked the Prefect badge pinned to his robes so that it gave off a sweet chime. "I'd go so far as to say that he's quite fond of me."
The rest of the boys snickered, Lestrange looking at him in servile admiration. Nott, however, looked just as disgruntled about the situation as Hermione did.
Nott glanced in her direction, his eyes darting to the door.
"I'm heading back to the east wing for some revision," Hermione announced. "See you later, Tom."
She turned on her heel and left the group, whose conversation had devolved into a comparison of whose parents had offered the best gifts and the worst punishments for their impending O.W.L. marks. She personally found it distasteful that most of them had to be bribed or coerced to do well in school, as if they had no motivation of their own to study hard, no personal investment in ensuring their own success.
But things were different for their sort, weren't they? Success wasn't a personal achievement to them—success was an extension of a family legacy. Those Slytherin boys were accessories to a notable lineage, and their success was a reflection of prestige on a family name, a name that overshadowed any one individual identity or accomplishment.
Perhaps they admired Tom Riddle because Tom didn't care about their family names. He didn't care who was related to whom, or whose family controlled the most seats on the Wizengamot. He was talented and successful without the benefit of familial advantage; he treated one and all with the same cold disdain. He was a consummate egalitarian... until he encountered the rare person who earned the title of 'Special'.
She puzzled out the strange friendships of Slytherin House on her way to the East Courtyard, where she was met by Nott a few minutes later, who kept checking over his shoulder to make sure he hadn't been followed.
Hermione cast an alarm jinx to warn her if anyone approached the vicinity of the statue.
"You were right about Tom being a Legilimens," she said, somewhat reluctantly. "I think he's been using it on other people for weeks. According to the book, comprehensive Legilimency requires a wand and an incantation, but surface level sensing only needs prolonged eye contact."
"Weeks?" Nott gave a snort of derision. "It's closer to months. He's been doing it more and more lately, and the others haven't noticed a thing. I'm not good enough to block him—not if he's drawn his wand—but I can feel it when he's looking at me."
Months.
Hermione didn't volunteer her suspicions that Tom had been using surface level perception for years.
The book she'd borrowed, Insight of the Mind, had described examples of the many finer applications of Legilimency, and as she'd gone through the list, she'd found herself ticking box after box of things that applied to Tom Riddle. She'd recognised them at once; there had been too many coincidences over the years for it to be some fluke of accidental magic.
Perception, projection, transference, intrusion.
The second time she'd met him at Wool's. The few throwaway lines in the letters he'd written her, saying that he prided himself on judging others on their character. It wasn't the Muggle concepts of telepathy or hypnotism, but Legilimency that explained Tom's ability to spot those with dishonest intentions towards him. It was why he had allowed Hermione to be his 'friend', because he had seen that her offer of friendship had been made in goodwill. Tom's natural intuition; the way she'd heard his voice in her head; his special 'technique' of training animals. Sienna and Peanut in First Year, her owl Gilles in the summer before Second.
Of course, she couldn't say that he'd been doing any of it out of malicious intent, but he also wasn't doing it for any other reason but his own advantage. And if Hermione asked herself whether or not Tom would consider performing Legilimency out of malice, then the answer was a solid and resounding Yes.
"You've been studying Occlumency on your own?" Hermione asked. "I've noticed that you never look Tom in the eye anymore, not since Christmas."
"If I can help it, I try never to be alone in the same room as Riddle," said Nott, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets. "I don't know how you stand being around him. In fact, since Christmas, I've rather noticed you cosying up even closer to him."
"He's an interesting person once you get to know him. There's no one else in our year who understands magical theory like he does," Hermione said defensively. Then she glowered at him, adding, "And cosy or not, that's got nothing to do with you."
"I prefer it that way," Nott retorted, his lip curled in evident disdain. "That part of it is none of my business. Frankly, I find it all rather sickening. And in any event, you already know what I want to know."
She could hardly forget it, nor the deal they'd made.
Hermione would have felt guilt about sharing his secrets, if Tom had wanted his unique abilities to be kept a secret. But he hadn't, had he?
Before he'd known he was a wizard, he'd used it on her, and Hermione had doubts that she'd been the only one affected. The way he'd spoken to her, more like ordered her to tell him the truth, couldn't be a spontaneous fluke—not in the most generous person's interpretation of 'reasonable doubt'. It was practised, and he'd known what he was doing. Even before Tom had met her; before he'd known about the jurisdiction of magical authorities, or the legality of mind-affecting spells, he would have had no reason to restrain himself, especially as not one of the people around him had merited his concern or respect.
And now—even now—he was using Legilimency almost casually.
They hadn't been secrets she'd shared, anyway. Tom's full name, address, and guardian status were a matter of public record. Professor Dumbledore, who had visited Tom in the orphanage in the delivery of his Hogwarts letter, knew. Professor Slughorn, as Tom's Head of House, knew. The Board of Governors and the Headmaster, who signed off the bursary records indicating which students were to be given financial support each year, would most likely have access to that information as well.
So, they weren't secrets, not as such.
They were more like uncommon knowledge, just like the locations of each House's Common Room, which the average student assumed was a secret confined to members of each House... but anyone enterprising enough could find the other Common Room locations if they asked the right people or looked in the right books. Hermione knew that the Hufflepuff Common Room was on the Ground Floor somewhere, near the Kitchens. And the Slytherin Common Room, which Slytherin students were told had never been seen by non-Slytherins for centuries, was somewhere in the dungeons. She'd deduced this from the references made by the Slytherin boys when they excused themselves from the homework club classroom to fetch a book from their dorms; they always left and came back within ten minutes, which ruled out any of the castle's towers.
(Hermione had figured out years prior that Gryffindor's Common Room was in one of the west towers, because of the red and gold banners they hung out of their dormitory windows during end-of-the-year Quidditch finals. When it came to subtlety, Gryffindors were sorely lacking in it.)
"I'm afraid there's nothing else I can tell you," Hermione said, tracing the carved vines on her wand with a finger. "Especially since I know that what you really want is something to hold over Tom's head. It's worth repeating how much of an awful idea that is."
She didn't have more information, anyway. From First Year, she'd tried to impress the importance of responsibility when it came to Tom's use of magic. It was one thing for him to delve too far into his magical research and run afoul of the law due to his own carelessness; it was another thing for Tom to find himself in that situation because she had, intentionally or not, incriminated him. And if that happened, it would be a tremendous waste of Tom's talent, when he could have been better off directed towards pursuits that were intellectually stimulating and far from being labelled morally unsound or socially objectionable.
"Is that a no?" said Nott, refusing to be turned off so easily by her refusal. "Not even for a book on Occlumency? Dream Divination or Animagus transformations? How about unpublished potions recipes? I think we have a book on brewing Memory Enhancement Potions—obviously, they're classed as a restricted substance by the Wizarding Examinations Board, but they're otherwise fine for everyday use." He fumbled into his pocket and came up with a folded slip of paper, offering it to Hermione. "If you learn anything new during the holidays, these are my directions. I have access to the whole library when I'm at home—I'm sure there's something that might convince you to re-evaluate your position. Something to make it worth your time."
She took the paper, and looked at the contents.
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The Mews
Broxtowe Abbey
Nottinghamshire
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"'The Mews'?" Hermione read. "You live in a stable?"
"You could try and make an effort not to sound so common, Granger," said Nott haughtily. "For all his faults, Riddle at least pretends he's not as common as dirt, and he makes it believable. I live in a manor house. The Mews are where we keep our owls and hawks. I won't have you sending letters to the house, so address them to the Mews and our elf will collect them when she cleans out the roosts."
Hermione had forgotten how antiquated the lives of pureblooded wizards were. For the most part, they wore the same uniforms and spoke the same English as everyone else at Hogwarts, although their accents tended to be closer to the drawling refinement of the British aristocracy compared to the accent shared by Tom and Hermione, which was the London standard of the educated classes, spoken by Mum and Dad and the broadcasters on the wireless.
She'd known that members of prestigious houses married young to preserve family names and family money, a custom she considered beyond archaic. From proofreading papers in the homework club, she'd noticed several boys spelling connection and choose as connexion and chuse, with Unnecessary Capitalisation all over the Place, which she thought an amusing quirk that made their writing sound like a treatise by Pepys or Swift. She hadn't expected—though she shouldn't be surprised, now that she thought on it—to find that if they didn't understand modern scientific terms, then it wasn't so unusual for them to be using words whose meanings had changed in vernacular, or rather, Muggle English.
(She understood the reasons for it, but not why Nott had to be so condescending about it.)
"There's little chance I'll find anything new during the holidays." Hermione lowered her voice, peering around furtively to check on her alarm jinx, before she continued, "It's not something that comes up in normal conversation."
Nott set his jaw in obstinance. "Can't you find a way to introduce the subject?"
"You know," said Hermione, flicking her wand to disable the alarm, "you sound as obsessed about Tom as those girls who just about lose their minds when the professor announces a new group project."
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"Mum says we'll have to meet up in Diagon Alley next week so you can get fitted for your jacket," Hermione told Tom, as they put away their uniform robes on the Hogwarts Express. "The tailor in Diagon does alterations on Muggle clothes if she has a pattern to work from, and we've moved our custom there since many of the London shops have closed due to the war. The ones that are left are only making uniforms for officers."
"And naturally, you told your mother the minute I said I'd come," said Tom, pressing his temple against the cool glass of the window.
"Of course I told her," Hermione said, observing the downward curve of Tom's mouth; he'd been lukewarm about delivering on his side of their agreement. "Oh, poo-poo for you. There's no reason why you can't be gracious about it—it's as much of a career opportunity for you as it is for me. Mum paid for the tickets and your formal fittings, which you'll get to keep; you could wear it under a dress robe if one of your 'friends' ever invites you to a wizard party."
"I can't imagine that she was pleased about buying the extra ticket."
"Why shouldn't she be?" Hermione asked. "It's all going to a good cause."
"Hm," said Tom, gazing out at the rolling miles of farmland, green and lush and ripe with wheat. "I just had a feeling."
Hermione bought a few bars of chocolate for her family when the sweets trolley came by. With sugar rationed for the last three and a half years, sweets were hard to come by, and chocolate was one of the small luxuries that was sorely missed in most British households. The Grangers had toured the confectionery shop in Diagon Alley before the start of the war, and wizarding chocolate had been her parents' favourite out of the vast selection. They'd never developed a taste for the strange jelly beans or the squeaking peppermint mice, and they hadn't been courageous enough to try the cockroach clusters, even though the shopkeeper had assured them that they tasted like peanuts and nothing else.
Chocolate, however, was universal.
She was excited to see her family again. As much as she loved Hogwarts, her love came from its being a centre of learning, and Hermione's love of learning was different from her love of family. Hogwarts wasn't home to her; it didn't mean the same thing to her as it meant to Tom.
She always looked forward to the end of the year, because it meant going home to Mum and Dad, who for most of her life had guided, cared for, and loved her. The professors at Hogwarts guided, and cared—as much as was required by the terms of their employment—but she was one of a hundred Ravenclaws to Professor Beery, her Head of House. For most of her time at Hogwarts, they were distant figures while she was expected to be self-sufficient, and after the issuance of her Prefect badge, she was herself expected to be a carer to the Ravenclaw First Years.
(She was only supposed to take care of the First Year girls, with Fitzpatrick as the guide to the First Year boys, but after a week or two of Fitzpatrick bumbling about when answering their questions, his default response had turned to, "Go ask Hermione". Her know-it-all reputation had transformed into an advantage overnight, though she couldn't say she was entirely happy with the increased workload.)
It was difficult to express her thoughts about it, because Home was more than a specific house on a specific street, more than familiar rooms whose every inch she'd explored over the years, or the right people who knew her favourite stories and cooked her favourite foods. It was a combination of all of the above: connection and attachment, closeness and familiarity, all the things that couldn't be reproduced by magic, no matter how powerful the caster.
These thoughts occupied her mind when she and Tom waited on the platform for the crowds to clear out of the way.
"Where should I send my letters?" asked Hermione, setting her owl cage atop her trunk. She got onto her toes and peered into the crowd, which was obscured by the billows of steam pouring out from the locomotive's boiler. She sighed; there were dozens of people waiting to pass through to the Muggle side of King's Cross.
"I'll be at the Leaky Cauldron for the summer," Tom said, who had grown tall enough that he didn't have to crane his neck to see over the heads of other people. "It's dearer than Hogsmeade, but I booked early this time, so they didn't try to shove a double on me like they did last time."
"You're in London—that's fantastic news!" Her smile began to wane. "Oh, I wish they hadn't cut our petrol tickets; I'd have liked to visit every other day."
"Try a Refilling Charm on the petrol tank," suggested Tom. "Liquids are easier to duplicate than solids, especially if it's not food. The visualisation is always harder when you have to make sure it tastes right."
"I've never practised refilling anything other than water," Hermione said, her brows knitting together while she parsed her way through Tom's suggestion. She'd made it a habit of doing so when it came to Tom; whenever he came up with grand ideas he often left the logistics of them up in the air. 'Operation: Order of Merlin' was one such example of his 'ideas'. "I'm afraid to cause an accident if I was experimenting with petrol. According to The Theory of Transformative Charmwork, a perfect duplication copies all the original object's physical properties, which includes the phase states—and petrol in any open container produces vapours. It sounds terribly dangerous to me."
"You know, Hermione," said Tom musingly, "I can't see how the Sorting Hat ever thought you'd make a good Gryffindor. A Gryffindor would have just done it with no questions."
"And blasted off his own eyebrows."
"And that," Tom agreed. "How about practising on paraffin wax or petroleum jelly first? They're quite similar on a structural level, and if you've learned to duplicate them, you can always Transfigure them to petrol if you can't cast a Refilling Charm."
"No," Hermione shook her head, "I'm going to master the Refilling Charm this summer. It's on the N.E.W.T. curriculum—"
"—We just finished our O.W.L.s a few days ago."
"Which means we have to start worrying about the N.E.W.T.s," Hermione said, but Tom didn't try to refute her statement; he just gave her a look of fond resignation and waited for her to continue. "Refilling a cup of wine is on the Charms practical exam, so only being able to do water isn't good enough. If I can successfully Refill a petrol tank, then I can try learning to enchant with it—if our motor's tank tops itself off, then Dad won't have to count his ration tickets whenever he has to visit a patient."
"Enchanting Muggle artefacts now, Hermione?" remarked Tom, a pleased smirk creeping across his face.
"It's for a good cause!"
"If that's what you tell yourself, I wouldn't dare to correct you."
"Well!" Hermione planted her hands on her hips, eyes bright with defiance. "If it lets me visit Diagon Alley every day, then you'd benefit from it too."
"Would I?"
"I'd help you with your writing; no one researches like I do. And you'd help me work out how to add more enchantments to the motor. It stands to reason if I can Refill the tank, I could Silence the exhaust or Cushion the suspension, too."
Tom's smile grew wider and wider. "Oh, what's this? Could it be what the Ministry calls 'Improper Use of Magic'? Is our dear little Hermione finally seeing the light?"
"Hey!" cried Hermione, who was older than Tom by several months and hadn't hesitated to point it out when they were ten years old and exchanging letters. At that age, the difference of several months was counted as something significant. "I'm not little!"
(She could deny that particular point, because Tom was right about the other one. The Ministry wouldn't approve, but the Ministry wouldn't know, so it was all moot.)
"Don't complain about it," said Tom, patting the top of her head. "It's endearing."
Tom's fingers were in her hair.
Somehow—and despite the tone of his words—it didn't feel at all condescending. It had nothing in common to the primary school hair tugging done in class by little boys who sat one row behind little girls. Instead, it was soft and gentle and Hermione found that she'd leaned into his hand, and was leaning in rather close to Tom's chest by the time he'd pulled his hand back, the slightest touch of colour high on his cheekbones, although that could have been explained by the combination of high summer and the radiant heat produced by a dozen locomotives in the enclosed structure of a busy train station.
Tom cleared his throat. "The queue's gone now. Come on, let's go."
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Dear Tom,
When I tried to duplicate petroleum jelly, I keep getting a thin, oily liquid mixture. It should be a semi-solid state at room temperature. What am I doing wrong?
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Dear Hermione,
Your mistake is trying to duplicate too much at once, from too small a sample of starting material. If I had five loaves of bread, and was told it had to feed five thousand people, I wouldn't immediately try to multiply one loaf into five thousand. I'd do it in batches of one loaf into three or four, although most people would find it hard to maintain focus on anything greater than that number. A lower ratio keeps the spell boundaries more stable, resulting in a more stable product.
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Dear Tom,
It worked! It seems that it's easier to refill a half-used container of petroleum jelly than it is to fill a container that's all used up apart from a few smudges at the bottom. I wish I'd known that before I spent two hours casting the spell over and over on a near-empty container...
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Dear Hermione,
Simpler materials are easier to duplicate at higher ratios. It would take a master level wizard to turn a single crumb into a whole cake, but a competent wizard should be able to duplicate a scoop of flour or sugar into a large bag in one go. The reason why wizarding grocery stores are still in business is because the average wizard is terminally incompetent.
I have a question of my own: Why is it unacceptable for a woman to fix her lipstick at the dinner table?
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The first few weeks of the summer holiday passed in a daily exchange of short notes about magical theory on Hermione's side and women's insecurities on Tom's, because apparently targeting his readers' self-esteem was the most efficient way to sell lifestyle advice.
On one hand, Hermione was pleased that Tom's choice of occupation was so innocuous, and that focusing on writing his articles meant that he no longer seemed to be interested in mind control spells or going out and joining the Anti-Grindelwald volunteer resistance. On the other hand, it didn't mean she was happy to see Tom condoning wasteful materialism, or encouraging lady hostesses to turn their summer parties from a friendly gathering of family members into a petty battle of dominance between herself, her neighbours, and her mother-in-law.
("They actually believe that the mark of a good wife and mother is the ability to stack a trifle ten layers high," wrote Tom in one of his letters. "If they believe it—as ridiculous as it is—why should I dissuade them from it? Why shouldn't I sell them on a temporary Hardening Charm technique to build their meringue up to fifteen layers? It's mutually beneficial for the both of us.")
One evening, when Hermione was summarising the progress of the day's studies in her homework planner, she realised that Tom had not become a better person by taking up writing as his hobby and summer job. He'd merely exchanged one form of manipulation for another, and the form he'd chosen was one considered socially acceptable.
Her consolation came from the fact that readers had a choice whether or not they took Mr. Bertram's advice; what he shared was magical knowledge, a different and more accessible format that differed from the clinical style of a textbook, but the effect was the same. The intent with which they used the knowledge was up to the readers' determination, and it wasn't Tom's responsibility to decide for them. That was what separated it from the manipulation of the Imperius Curse, whose malicious potential didn't involve consent from the parties involved.
Despite her misgivings, it wasn't enough to make Hermione reconsider inviting Tom to the Veterans' Charity Gala. The tickets were already ordered, the clothing prepared, and the travel arrangements made.
The evening of the event, the Grangers drove the motorcar to Charing Cross, where they picked Tom up outside the Leaky Cauldron, and proceeded to the hotel off Hyde Park where they'd once shared an afternoon tea after shopping in Diagon Alley. That had been several weeks before the start of the war, and Hermione hadn't been back since, so the changes due to wartime austerity were more striking than ever.
The taxi ranks were empty, and the street in front of the hotel was quiet for what should have been a popular thoroughfare of central London. The retraction of the civilian petrol ration had taken its toll on the segment of the population who owned automobiles. Hermione had noticed the quietness when she'd returned for the summer to the house on Argyll Street, where most of their neighbours had owned motors, but now it was only the Grangers who regularly drove anywhere—and even that, for the most part, was limited to medical emergencies.
Hermione had, after a few weeks of practising, successfully managed the Refilling Charm on petrol, after working her way up from petroleum jelly, cooking oil, and kerosene. At first, she had been nervous about testing her product, but she'd realised that she didn't have to test the burn rate of an open bowl of petrol by throwing a match on it and running. She was a witch: she could stand well back and cast an Incendio at a distance, and protect herself with a Shield Charm in case it exploded.
She'd filled up the family motor car, and was planning to fill several jerry cans for when she left for Hogwarts in September. She hadn't quite got the hang of enchanting the tanks to fill themselves up, but she had speculated that it would be similar to the way the cistern in their tent's bathroom never ran out of water.
Until then, she and her family could drive around London at their leisure. Mum had even offered Hermione driving lessons since they had the fuel to spare, and the roads around their neighbourhood were empty of other motorists. Hermione had accepted. She hadn't liked broomstick training back in First Year, but operating a motor car involved sitting in a padded seat while turning a wheel and moving a few pedals around. It wasn't physically demanding, so surely it couldn't be too difficult?
Hermione recounted the story to Tom as they sat in the back of the Grangers' motor, while Dad drove around the back of the hotel to find a parking space.
"...We stopped on Willoughby Street because I flooded the engine and it overheated, so Mum and I got out to wait. A man came out of his house and asked what happened, then another man appeared, and soon enough we had four strange men arguing with each other about what had gone wrong with our motor," said Hermione, who had not enjoyed the experience of being out on a hot summer day, with an engine that burned at the touch. "And then one of them said that this was what happened when women were allowed to drive. Mum got so cross at him."
"I'm not certain I'll like the end of this story."
"Everything ended well," Hermione assured him. "Over half the farms in Britain are being run by the Women's Land Army. If women hadn't learned to drive, no one would have anything to eat."
"They wouldn't," Tom pointed out. "But they're Muggles."
"Tom!" Hermione cried, peering out of the window to check if there were other people nearby. "You promised you'd be a Good Boy! One of the conditions of our deal is that you can't say the word 'Muggle' for the rest of the night. You know that the Ministry urges wizards to blend in when out in public."
"By that they meant wizards should take off their pointy hats when leaving Diagon Alley. But since you sat through eight of Slughorn's dinners," sighed Tom, "I suppose I can refrain from using the 'm-word' for the rest of the evening."
"Good," said Hermione brightly, patting him on the shoulder. "You can start now."
She opened the passenger door and slid out of the motor car, Tom following behind her.
The exterior windows of the Royal Aspen Hotel were covered by black-out curtains as a deterrent to German aerial bombers. By contrast, the interiors dazzled. The hotel was well-lit and well-appointed, with gleaming parquet floors, a grand staircase in the foyer where several couples were queuing up to have their portraits taken by a hired photographer; crystal chandeliers were the centrepiece of the ballroom, the walls of which were draped in regimental banners representing the prior services of the veterans in attendance. Hermione's eyes lingered on the snake within a laurel wreath that was the insignia of the Royal Army Medical Corps, her father's service.
"I wonder what the soldiers would think of all this," said Tom, waving a hand at the table loaded with finger-foods, and the section at the end where a hotel attendant was ladling punch and pouring sparkling wine for the guests.
The food wasn't as sumptuous as it would have been before war rationing, as she could see by the square edges on the potted meat served on crackers that it had come out of a can. The devilled eggs were more devil than eggs, and she was sure that the hotel chefs had used salad cream instead of proper mayonnaise. Even the drinks weren't really from Champagne or Bordeaux; the punch was more seltzer and syrup than actual alcohol—not that Mum would accept that as a valid excuse for Hermione to have a glass.
There was more than enough for everyone, but it lacked the extravagance of the past; the event organisers had done their best with what was available. Hermione acknowledged that a spread like this was better than hardtack and pork hash or whatever soldiers were served in the field.
"I don't think it matters," she said. "Not if it means the money raised ensures supplies and comforts for the soldiers. And besides, it's not like they'll ever know about this party."
Looking around the ballroom, Hermione saw that she and Tom were two of the younger guests in attendance. The rest of the guests were veterans of the Great War and their families, and by the uniforms she saw them wearing—which were decorated with rank badges and medals—they were mostly commissioned officers. There were also a few young men in modern uniforms with officers' pips on their shoulders; she presumed them to be the sons and nephews of the ladies who'd organised the evening, visiting London on leave.
"Should we introduce ourselves around, or eat something first?" Hermione asked, glancing at Tom.
Tom regarded the food table with a look of disdain. "There's nothing here that I find appetising. I think I'll just have a tray sent up when I get back to The Cauldron."
"Fine," Hermione huffed, grabbing him by the elbow. "Let's go make some acquaintances."
"I've never seen you like this at Slughorn's dinner parties," Tom noted.
"That's because Professor Slughorn is always asking about other people's families, and since they're all wizards, there's no one I know or recognise," said Hermione. "But these are people I do know. Oh! Over there! That's Roger Tindall—his father and mine are members of the same Alumnus Society."
She dragged Tom in the direction of a slender young man with curly hair that was a shade between brown and blond. He had a few moles on his cheeks and the side of his chin that detracted from the overall symmetry; nevertheless, they gave him an interesting and not unpleasant appearance when viewed as a whole. His eyes were a clear blue, his features charming enough, not that she paid much attention to how people looked when she could focus on what they said and how they acted. Like Tom, he was dressed in civilian garb: white tie and stiff white shirtfront under a black tailcoat and pressed black trousers.
"Roger!" Hermione called, and he turned aside from his conversation to examine the new arrivals.
"Hermione? Hermione Granger?" he said, his eyebrows rising up in surprise. "I haven't seen you in years."
Roger Tindall came from a well-regarded old family whose wealth lay in the breadth of their connections. He was a few years older than Hermione—he must be nineteen or twenty now—and their mothers used to have tea together at the Royal Aspen before the war. She'd known him then, but that was before she had gone to Hogwarts, and since Hogwarts, she'd had very little contact with Muggle friends and their families. In fact, the people (who weren't family members) with whom she spent most of her time outside of Hogwarts were limited to Sigismund Pacek and Tom Riddle.
"How do you do?" said Hermione. "Mum said that you've gotten into Sandhurst. Congratulations! I'd have never taken you for having military inclinations, but I suppose everyone wants to do their part these days."
"I'm well, thank you. Give Mrs. Granger my regards," replied Roger, who had gotten over his surprise and was now looking her over. She expected she was rather different to the ten or eleven year old Hermione he'd known in the past; she couldn't say she'd grown that much taller, but she was a bit more confident now after learning about her magical birthright. And she was wearing a new dress from Gladrag's which had been tailored to size by the saleswitch, and professional magical tailoring was just as good as Muggle bespoke.
"You look very well, Hermione," continued Roger, "I heard you got into Donwell, though I would've been shocked if they hadn't let you in. As for military inclinations: I can say I've no interest in going to the front—not that Mother would let me even if I wanted to. I find that I'm rather set on Military Intelligence. There are a great many opportunities to study thermionic tabulators with them that aren't offered to civilians."
"Computers!" said Hermione excitedly. "I've only studied the old punch card tabulators—mechanical, of course—but I hear there are great strides being made in electronic tabulation. A great deal more complex, to be sure, but anyone invested in secrecy wouldn't dare code information so simply that it might be broken by hand."
"Exactly," Roger nodded. "And you, Hermione? When we were children, I recall that you wanted to be the next Doctor Granger. Should I expect a stethoscope and Gladstone bag when next I see you? Though I should hope that won't be in ten years' time."
Hermione laughed, cheeks flushing. "Perhaps you will. My parents have offered to start me in the clinic when I'm eighteen, although that's as much for wanting to support the effort as it is to stay on the vital occupations list—just as you said, I've also got no interest in the front. But there are other things that I feel I'm up for."
"As tenacious as I remember!" Roger toasted Hermione with his glass of punch, then his attention turned to Tom. "She must be a handful at times, Mister—? Pardon me, you seem to have me at a disadvantage."
"Tom Riddle," Tom spoke smoothly, offering his hand.
Roger shook it, very briefly, and seemed to wince when he drew his hand back. He studied Tom for a few seconds, his eyes tracing Tom's features, with a puzzled look in them, as if he was trying and failing to place Tom Riddle as a familiar face in the family compendium of social connections.
Tom stared back at him unflinchingly.
"'Riddle'," murmured Roger, taking a deep swallow of punch. "Any relation to the North Riding Riddles?"
"Tom is an—" Hermione began.
"Yes," said Tom.
Roger's momentary confusion dissolved, and he nodded politely to Tom.
Hermione's head whipped around to Tom. "Tom..."
Tom's hand brushed against hers, then she felt her hand being squeezed by his—a fleeting gesture of wordless reassurance—and then he let her go and was inclining his head toward Roger Tindall, his face smooth and blank of all expression, except for the flicker of twitching muscle on his cheek.
"I am," Tom said. "My father is also named 'Tom Riddle'. You've heard of him?"
"Not personally, no," said Roger. "But I believe my grandfather knows him. Fought with him in, what, Ninety-Nine? I say, that's half a century ago! They were in the Nineteenth Regiment—" he jerked his head in the direction of the wall, hung with banners. "That black one, the crown and cross, that's theirs—Princess Alexandra's Own. But enough about him. What do you do, Riddle?"
"I study at a boarding school in Scotland. It's small and very exclusive, or so I've been told," said Tom, whose shoulders had stiffened at Roger's words; he now appeared to be vibrating with impatience for the end of their conversation.
"You're a Gordonstoun man, then?" Roger asked.
"The school's farther north, actually," said Tom. "It doesn't have Gordonstoun's reputation or renown, but that might be a good thing as I've never seen any use for their famous discipline."
Roger chuckled. "I went to Charterhouse, and the worst they had was cloister football—and that was strictly optional. Never saw the use for Gordonstoun's methods, but then again, I've never been one in need of the old 'straightening up'. I shouldn't expect you to be one either; Hermione wouldn't put up with a chap who can't keep his nose squeaky clean. Isn't that right?"
"Yes," Hermione agreed, giving Tom a sideways glance. "And that goes for boys who can't keep up with me. Tom's always been a good boy on both counts."
"And I never forget her birthday," Tom added, returning her glance with a fond smile of his own, which was for Hermione's benefit as much as it was for Roger's. "She says it's my best quality. Speaking of good qualities, do you mind making an introduction to your grandfather? If he served with my father, I'd like to pay my respects to him."
"We'd like to," Hermione corrected him. "It's been years since I've seen Major Tindall; I wouldn't want to leave tonight without a 'How do you do' at least."
"Er, of course," said Roger, whose expression had shown the barest hint of disappointment in Hermione's imminent departure. "He's over by the corner, in the smoking section. Not one for mingling, as you can tell."
Roger led them over to where the older veterans had congregated, their uniforms pinned with more gilt and ribbons than on any of the younger men. They'd lit cigars and cigarettes, the burning tobacco eddying in a smelly haze around them. Someone had broken out a snifter of brandy, if the short glass tumblers filled with amber liquid were any indication.
Hermione could see why these old gentlemen weren't interested in the social mingle; a number of them had canes leaning against their chairs.
Major Tindall was one of them. He was heavy-set and moustached, looking comfortable with a smouldering cigar in one hand and a brandy glass in the other. He wore a white waistcoat—the buttons of which were clearly straining at the stomach—under a uniform mess jacket with thick gold braid on the shoulders and white piping along the sleeves, marked with a pip on each cuff in the shape of a crown. His left leg was propped up on an unoccupied chair, the hem rolled back to show a length of his upper foot and ankle, which, contrary to one's expectations, was not wrinkly, liver-spotted flesh, but a carven section of smooth wood.
"Grandfather," said Roger, greeting the old Major, "may I introduce a few guests? This is Hermione Granger; she came to Annabelle's birthday, that year Father got us a pair of puppies—"
"I remember her," Major Tindall interrupted, dropping his cigar into the ashtray at his elbow. "Dear Helen's little girl! My word, you're not so much of a girl anymore, are you? Roger, m'boy, you've better eyes than this old man—surely you've noticed—"
"Ahem," Roger coughed, looking away in embarrassment. "Helen Granger's daughter, yes. Quite accomplished in her own right, but I digress. Grandfather, may I acquaint you with Hermione's, um, friend? Riddle, this is my grandfather, Major Walter Tindall."
"Tom Riddle," said Tom. The lines of his body were rigid, but his eyes shone bright with eagerness. He offered his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, sir. From your grandson, I understand that you served with my father. Nineteenth Regiment, I'm told."
Just as Roger had done, Major Tindall fell silent for a moment. Taken aback, as if experiencing a split second of uncanny déjà vu.
Major Tindall swept Tom over with his eyes, squinting at him and even tilting his head.
"Sir?" Tom prompted.
"Oh... Oh my! I say!" Major Tindall pressed one thick-fingered hand, which had a minute earlier been holding a cigar, over his chest. The other hand lifted his glass of brandy to his lips, whereupon he took a fortifying gulp. "Thomas, you sly old dog. No! Don't tell me—you didn't—!"
"I'm sorry," said Hermione, eyes flitting from the Major to Tom. "What's happening?"
"I don't know," whispered Roger. "Grandfather?"
"Riddle," Major Tindall mumbled through a mouthful of brandy, "Lieutenant Thomas Riddle, I knew him—was his superior officer during the war. Went mufti with him in the Transvaal for a fortnight—shot ourselves a good half-dozen antelopes each—they called 'em springboks over there, as good as beef but twice as lean. Never took that man for a rakehell; oh, certainly he could charm a girl—I remember there was that lovely little Flemish farmer's daughter who had her eye on him—Saskia van Something-or-Other, a sweet young thing, dead shot at eighty paces with a Mauser, if I do say so myself. Took the recoil with nary a flinch..."
Major Tindall cleared his throat and went on, "Riddle always got more than his fair share of looks whenever we billeted the troops. But he found himself a wife and brought her home right after the war ended and he left the service, while I stayed on for the next war." He nodded at his left leg. "And you can see what I got for it—got one foot in the grave, hah, as the old army sawbones called it."
"The war?" said Tom, returning the conversation back to the subject of his interest. "You mentioned the Transvaal. I assume you're talking about the war with the Boer states of Africa? The second war ended in 1902."
The Boer War.
Hermione remembered a book she'd had—she remembered most books she owned—that she'd given away years ago in a Christmas donation. It was military history, full of maps and battle diagrams and casualty lists; it was informational, but not at all enjoyable. She'd put it in the charity box, because she recalled there was a boy at the orphanage who had liked that book on Napoleon, another book she had had no qualms about parting with.
Skirmishes of the Second Boer War.
Tom obviously remembered it too.
"Yes," said Major Tindall, who looked a fraction more composed, though his eyes still lingered on Tom's face. "He married his girl in Aught-Three or Four. Good God, that must be forty years ago! You can't be more than twenty, can you?"
"I'll be seventeen come December."
"Goodness. Poor Mary," Major Tindall muttered to himself, setting aside his brandy. "The shock of a lifetime, dear Lord. Of course she'll have to be told; it's the right thing to do. This isn't the sort of thing one can keep hidden away forever... A proper gentleman ought to take responsibility if he's any man at all..."
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Tom, "but who might this Mary be?"
"Mrs. Mary Riddle," said Major Tindall. "Lieutenant Riddle's wife. She'd be your, ah, step-mother? Roger, have the young folks got a name for it? I can't for the life of me think of better."
"I'm afraid not, Grandfather," Roger answered, who was looking rather pale. "Riddle, are you sure you're not their lawful son...?"
"I've never met a Mrs. Mary Riddle," Tom said. "I've never heard of her until just now. My mother named me after my father, and I was born and raised in London. If they're the Riddles of North Riding—Yorkshire, I presume—I don't suppose you have their directions? I'd very much like to contact her—them—if it would be at all possible."
"It's been years since I last spoke to 'em," said Major Riddle regretfully. "They don't partake in the London life—" here he gestured at the ballroom and the crowds of milling guests. "They live in the country and as far as I know, keep to themselves. I can't recall their address, but I'm sure that if you know someone at the Military Records Office, they'd pull his directions from their files."
Tom's eyes darted to Hermione's, and they shared a significant look. This was a lead they should follow up on, as soon as possible.
For the next half hour, they made conversation with Major Tindall, who had a large trove of amusing anecdotes from his military days, although Roger's pained expression indicated that it wasn't that large, and that he'd heard the punchline of every story before. Roger's discomfort didn't fade by the end of the story, which was about an enlisted man in their company who had gotten drunk and traded his rifle for a native's spear, then showed up to parade the next morning with it.
In fact, it grew more pronounced as Major Tindall waxed nostalgic about the good old days when men were men, and not scoundrels like the Lieutenant Thomas Riddle, or milksops like his nephew, who had apparently got a doctor to diagnose him with something serious enough to have him struck off from potential service, and whether or not the ailment was real was made ambiguous. The Major then started on Roger Tindall's hopeful future service, all the strings pulled for Sandhurst, just for a desk commission...
"I, personally, find it very admirable," Hermione put in, during a lull when Major Tindall went to refresh his throat with a second helping from the brandy snifter. "I think everyone should find a position that suits their strengths. Not everyone has to be able to shoot a rifle or dig a trench to do their part for Britain. I couldn't do that—in fact, I get tired digging up carrots in the local victory garden."
"No one's expecting you to do any of that," said Tom quickly, searching for some way to settle any contention and take his leave politely. "General consensus says that each sex's strengths lie in opposite directions. And for men, that's manual labour."
"I don't see why what they say matters," said Hermione. "Few people understand the concept of differencing algorithms, and there's no sense in throwing away talent just because certain people expect things due to other people being born a certain way."
"Very well said." Roger gave Hermione a relieved smile, which looked slightly forced. The whole situation must have been desperately uncomfortable for him, Hermione realised. Being made privy to the tawdry details of other men's personal lives could do that to anyone's composure. "The band's warming up. Grandfather, do you mind if we bid our adieus for now?"
"Get on, then," Major Tindall waved them off. "Take her for a turn around the floor, Roger. I'd volunteer myself, but these old bones have let me down one too many times. Riddle, stay and keep me company, won't you?"
"Hermione?" said Roger, offering her his arm. "Would you like to dance?"
"Oh," she said, glancing at Tom, who was topping up Major Tindall's glass. Did the brandy snifter look fuller than the last time he'd poured from it, or was that just her imagination? Hadn't there been around a quarter left? "Um. Why not?"
She took Roger's arm, following him to the dance floor as the musicians began to play.
"So..." Roger began, hesitantly. One hand reached for Hermione's, the other for her waist. "Your, ah, friend Riddle is someone's natural-born son. Grandfather can't keep his mouth shut, so half the veterans will know by the end of the evening. Good job the Riddles live in Yorkshire; they'd be the centre of a scandal if the news broke with them in London."
"Tom has never met his father," Hermione replied, with as much confidence as she could muster. Half her attention was spent making sure she didn't squash Roger's toes beneath her low-heeled slippers. "He's never been to Yorkshire. He deserves to know who his family is."
"Some family," said Roger, shaking his head. "If my memory is accurate, then your Tom has an older brother—half-brother—twice his age, also named Tom. Family name, of course, but it'll make things terribly messy, especially when you throw the inheritance into question."
"What inheritance?"
"The Riddles own a village up in the north. Old family—they made a fortune in coal back when the mines were running flush. The mines are mostly closed these days with the men all gone, but the land around them is still theirs."
"I see."
Hermione could see Tom being pleased by that—coming from an old, wealthy family must have been every orphan's dream. But she could see him equally bitter about it, because he'd been raised as a nameless and destitute orphan, his magical birthright denied to him until he was eleven years old, his familial connections a mystery until tonight, only revealed to him by an uncommon stroke of fortune.
"Hermione," spoke Roger in a quiet voice, over the strumming of the band, "he's not done anything untoward, has he? He might have old blood, but I can tell he's not been raised that way—not if his father is the scoundrel that Grandfather thinks he is."
"No!" said Hermione fiercely, squeezing Roger's hand with more force than she'd intended. "I've known him for years, and he's never been ill-mannered to me. Tom isn't his father; he can't be, not if he's never even met the man."
"I'd have worried about you," said Roger. "And I still am. You must see, Hermione, that he's not exactly our sort, is he?"
"I'm not sure what you mean by that."
"Just... be careful, please?" he said. "I know men like him—he's a smooth one, a charmer. I can tell that he's going to go after the family money, and he won't take no for an answer."
That sounds like Tom, she thought. He can be incredibly single-minded when he sets his sights on a goal. The only way to dissuade him is to distract him with something of equal value.
"He's entitled to have it," replied Hermione. "He's part of the family too."
"He also looks at you as if he thinks he's entitled to your company," Roger whispered, then his eyes followed the movement of something over Hermione's shoulder. "Here he comes. By the look on his face, I don't think he likes me. Right, Hermione, I'll see you later?" He dropped a perfunctory kiss to the air by Hermione's cheek, then let go of her hand. "Write to me; my mother forwards my correspondence when I go back for the new term."
Roger made himself scarce, just as Tom stepped up to his vacated position and offered his own hand to Hermione, his face peculiarly blank, his expression unreadable.
"Come on, didn't I promise you a dance?" asked Tom.
Hermione let him take her hand and set his other hand on her waist; he held his arms at stiff angles from his body, and she guessed that he was unused to this particular form of nearness. She couldn't recall many instances of his touching other people in or out of class—not willingly at least—and he hadn't had his hand on her waist when they'd practised dancing that day in the empty classroom. She could feel his fingers curling around the ribbon sash sewn to the waistline of her dress; they were close enough that she could discern the direction of hair growth beneath the line of his jaw, the follicles ever so slightly dark from where he'd shaved that morning. She noted that it would be years yet before he could grow a full beard: the area between his chin and upper lip was far from being connected.
She had to wonder if Tom was looking at her in the same way. Was he observing how the part in her hair was off-centre? Did he notice black smudges above her eyelids where her mascara had smeared? Mum had helped her apply it with a tiny toothbrush, but Hermione had worn cosmetics so rarely in her life that she hadn't gotten into the habit of keeping her hands from touching her face. She wasn't so much self-conscious about her appearance—she'd never known Tom to be overly concerned with other people's comeliness or their lack of it, or even his own vanity—as she was curious about what things suddenly became prominent in such close quarters.
Tom held her a lot closer than Roger had, and it turned out that this was so he could murmur in her ear without being overheard, his mouth so close to the curve of her ear that when they turned with the rest of the dancers on the floor, she felt the lightest graze of his lips.
"We are going to break into the Military Records Office."
Hermione jerked back. "That's a horrible idea!"
"Shhh!" Tom looked quickly over his shoulder, but no one had noticed.
"It is!" whispered Hermione. "We can't use magic outside of the cellar without the Ministry's Trace finding us. And those aren't the only rules we'd be breaking. What do you think will happen if the police are called? Getting expelled from Hogwarts is only the least of it; they'd execute us as spies if they caught us!"
"If you've a better idea, let's hear it, then."
"I'm going to tell Mum," said Hermione in her most assertive voice, ignoring Tom's scowl of displeasure. No doubt in Tom's mind, the notion of Telling Mum was an infraction equal to Calling the Police or Dobbing to a Professor. "She doesn't know everyone here, but she knows people who know other people. And once they know of the circumstances, they'll be eager to help, even if that includes pulling a few favours."
Tom sighed, and the warm puff of his breath whistled past her ear. "I'm still keeping 'Operation: Break-In' up my sleeve. Just in case."
"It's going to stay there," Hermione told him. "Because you won't need it."
Tom's response was another non-committal sigh.