1946
.
The 1946 Quidditch World Cup was to be held in the United Magical Provinces of the Low Countries. Hermione didn't know what that meant until she asked Rosier, who'd shown her a map. She'd nodded and said, "Oh, isn't that Belgium and the Netherlands? Why didn't you say so?"
"What's a 'Belgium'?" asked Rosier. "There's no such country. The World Cup final is set for the province of Heynault, where the organisers have built the stadium in a mine pit the Muggles abandoned. The Heynaultians speak French, did you know? I've been picked for the Ministerial retinue due to my language talents."
Belgium, on both sides of the Statute, was known across the Continent as the "Crossroads of Europe", and its selection as the host region was a well-intentioned effort at reconciliation at the end of a long wizarding war. A place where European nations could "come together and meet", which sounded terribly ominous to Hermione given her knowledge of history, but it seemed no one cared about it when they could be lamenting over Britain's poor prospects this time around.
Due to the conspiracies of the Dark Lord Grindelwald, the second half of the 1944-1945 British Quidditch season had been cancelled, and the players, first-team and reserves both, had been left to rot on the benches. The newspaper editorial sections spoke of a great unrest amongst Irish and Welsh supporters who blamed the Ministry for ending the season when the saboteurs had only targeted Montrose's stadium, in Scotland. "Cancel the league fixtures for the Scottish sides, English too while you're at it, but leave everyone else alone," they'd whinged. That way, Ireland got her chance at the World Cup, instead having all the nations of the British Isles be knocked out from the group stages.
The supporters were so protective of their precious Quidditch, Hermione thought. No one knew back then it was only Montrose. The Cancellation—with the capital letter to show its severity—was a pre-emptive protective measure based on the available information. Without the benefit of hindsight, it was best to act cautiously. It was a perfectly logical response!
"Why are they so upset?" she asked. "It's just a sport."
This made Rosier shake his head in sadness. "When you look at a Quidditch pitch, what do you see? Fourteen wizards chasing balls about in mid-air?"
"Is that not what it is?" said Hermione.
"It's a choreography of the sublime," said Rosier. "Have you never considered the artistic composition of the set piece?"
He reached into his pocket and brought out a miniature model of a Quidditch pitch, with little cast metal players dangling from strings stretched across the green felt field, like clothes on a laundry line. Rosier cast the Engorgement Charm, un-shrinking the model until it was the width of his arm-span.
"In the beginning, they used to use the W-formation. That's when you have three Chasers at front and two Beaters at the back to defend the goal line. Then they switched the M-formation; that's Beaters at the front, which they say is for maintaining the squad's possession statistics, but trust me, it's all about playing the game of tactical foulling. Then we have the 2-2-1, the 2-1-2, the 3-1-1, the 4-1-0, and the unstoppable Karelian 0-0-5 from the World Cup of 1722. Chaser, Beater, Chaser, Beater, Chaser. Lost the Snitch but won on goals, with two men on the other side down for injuries. Absolute madness!" Rosier ranted, moving the players around on the strings to demonstrate the formations.
"But everything changed," Rosier continued, "when the players started taking advantage of the dimensions of the game. You don't just move sideways and backwards on the pitch, see? You can go up and down. And Quidditch pitches don't officially have a size limit to how 'up' it goes. You can go as high as you want... well, until you run out of air and fall off your broomstick. But the rules allow wands on the pitch, so if you can cast a Bubble-Head Charm while flying, your Chasers can keep possession of the Quaffle until the Snitch is found. Just make sure to stay within the pitch boundaries or else you have to hand the Quaffle over to the other side. When teams first started doing it, the press called it gamesmanship, because they were squeezing the rulebook as far as it could go, and the strategy unfairly suited sides with the better broomsticks. Nowadays, everyone does it, though they don't recommend doing it all the time because the supporters don't want to pay to attend a fixture where no one can tell what's going on half a mile up. Honestly, if you've listened to the announcers at those sorts of matches, it's just a whole load of boring commentary on the weather. 'Oh, is that an interception by Number Four? No, that's just a cloud passing in front of the sun...' Takes the magic out of the game, it does."
Hermione suppressed a yawn as Rosier expounded on the differences between the "physical player" and the "technical player".
"The Germans usually go for top technical," said Rosier. "All players maintain triangular positioning and relative formation within each pitch zone. Take possession, pass, pass, barrel roll through the other Chasers, dive feint, tight vertical pass to dodge the Keeper, score. Minimal contact, no bookable fouls, no penalties, clean game and clean sheet. The British League go for a more physical approach. Get the biggest, scariest-looking Beaters you can find, mark every player who goes near the hoops with the Bludgers, and take out anyone who chances for the goal. Elbows for days, sacrifice a few penalties if you can knock a man out for injuries. On a cold, windy night in Stoke, you'd need your squad full of beef-eating bully boys..."
Goodness, Quidditch fanatics could go on about their favourite sport forever. Hermione hadn't realised the depth of their fascination until she started her job as an Auror trainee at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She wasn't surprised that her colleagues were almost entirely male; the real shock came from observing that this sort of nonsense was the mainstay of her colleagues' office lunchroom chatter—in lieu of productive discussions on recent legal judgments and conviction rates and so on. They acted like they didn't want to be promoted! How would they become competitive for the ascension to departmental leadership if they spent more time reading the back page match reports than the unresolved case files?
She kept those critical thoughts to herself, eating the lunch that Tom had prepared for her while other people, having overheard Rosier drop the irresistable words "Golden Snitch", came wandering closer like a niffler catching the scent of treasure.
Eyes glazing over, she skimmed over the notices on the lunchroom bulletin board, and double-checked the duty schedules. She had Travers as her training partner this week, as expected, and would be taking a triple day shift at Azkaban Prison under Auror Nevin. He was an Irish wizard, a very grave and serious fellow with a shark Patronus, and the DMLE's operations manager at Azkaban. A stern authoritarian and intolerant of the slightest slip in standards, on any other year, Auror Nevin would have been assigned trainees that the higher ups had deemed "unsuitable for service". That is, a low-rated recruit placed into the tender custody of the toughest task-master, intended to pick up a string of black marks on his record, and then be justifiably washed out of the programme before he might ascend to the full rank of Auror. Despite the complaints tendered by a well-connected uncle with another department's seniority, all the release procedures were in proper order, and the trainee was cut from the herd with the grateful farewell of "Good riddance!"
But in recent times, with a shortage in Aurors, needs must. Senior Aurors who'd long since graduated from menial duties had to do their part in what was affectionately called "child-minding". This duty shuffle went from the top to the bottom, and not even Ogier Rawlins dared to voice a complaint. Rawlins was Spencer-Moon's appointment to the DMLE directorship, desperately clinging to his position while his imminent replacement had yet to be coaxed out of retirement. Even with the staffing shortfall, Auror Nevin was given the best of the best from the year's intake: Miss Granger (or Madam Riddle, now) and young Mr. Travers, a pair who already knew how to work together, cast Patronuses under pressure, and perform emergency detainments on violent combatants.
World Cup fever was taking over the office, to the detriment of everyone else who didn't give a fig about balls going through hoops.
Hermione had never expected she'd look forward to going to Azkaban. The Azkaban staff lunchroom was a lot quieter. Calm and peaceful, with the sound of the North Sea sloshing away in the distance. They had a nice tea and refreshments buffet set up by the department, stocked with the expensive cocoa sold by Honeydukes in the pretty gold tins. She got a lot of studying done there, and Hermione's Occlumency training helped alleviate the general miasma of doom and gloom that affected everyone else.
Azkaban was a closed-off island with a single Apparition point for entrances and exits. The amenities consisted of a small guard block by the side of the prison gates, which held the dormitories and living quarters for the human guards and one Mediwizard. There was no drinking allowed on the island, and no pub, so after each shift, everyone went back to their rooms to sleep instead of knocking off for a round of drinks like they did after shifts in the London office.
No pubs, and therefore no awkwardness where the lads, without any forethought, left Hermione out of the invitations because, "We didn't think you'd be up for it; you're married, aren't you?"
"Hughes is married, and he's right there," Hermione had pointed out. Hughes, her fellow trainee, cringed at being put on the spot.
"We married because of the baby... and the dowry... her dad got us a cottage..." muttered Hughes in a low voice. "It's different."
Hermione had stormed off and ranted about it at dinner that evening. As usual, Tom had cooked: pan-fried thin-sliced pork cheeks with a rich cheesy swirl of egg noodles, a recipe Tom had learned from their honeymoon holiday in Florence. (It had to be Florence, naturally. The Prince wanted to pay his respects to Il Principe himself, Niccolò Machiavelli, whose memorial was located in a Florentine church. The whole story involved breaking into the church at night, so Tom could fully appreciate the memorial without the inane commentary of Muggle tourists crowding around to take rubbings of the gravestone with charcoal and butcher's paper.)
"I don't understand it," said Hermione, scowling. "I've restrained myself from telling them they've done something wrong any time something goes wrong. I now do it once every four times! Why don't I get a pub invitation? Is it a wizard thing?"
"It's not a wizard thing," said Tom. "It's a politics thing. How many of them have ever sat for supper with the Minister for Magic?"
The Minister for Magic following Spencer-Moon's ignominious retirement was a figure well-known to Tom and Hermione. His campaign was run on a promise of the rule of law, and having seized control of the DMLE and herded the Wizengamot into a series of emergency measures during the "Grindelwald disaster", proven himself in that moment singularly capable of leadership. The Prince of Charming vouched for him, still riding the crest of his popularity as the newspapers' darling, and the deal was sealed. The twenty-sixth Minister, elected in the autumn of 1945, was none other than Mr. Torquil Travers, retired Auror, Wizengamot member, and the father of Hermione's classmate, Quentin Travers.
"Travers does, every night," said Hermione. "But he still gets an invitation!"
"Does he accept it?" asked Tom, twirling the noodles around on his fork and inspecting each strand's uniformity of width.
"No, but—"
"Exactly," said Tom. "He knows how to play the politics game. If they know you'll refuse, they'll ask you out. But you would surely accept such an invitation."
"Of course I would," Hermione retorted. "They're forging career connections when they go out after work. I've learned enough popping in for tea breaks between shifts to know that everything one needs to know about the profession can't be had from the pages of the official Auror handbook. Why would I want to give up such an opportunity?"
"Those opportunities aren't for you," said Tom.
"I beg your pardon!" said Hermione.
"It's like when the host offers the last slice of cake even if he wants to save it for tomorrow's dessert, the guest must politely refuse even if she wants it. Or when you're asked on the first week of January if you had a pleasant holiday. The asker doesn't care about your answer, and the polite thing to do is to give a short but positive response. It's part of the, as you'd call it, the social contract. When you expect them to uphold their half, while you don't uphold your own, you make them nervous. You've got to remember that they're the enlisted cannon fodder," said Tom. "But you're officer material. You don't need to get muddy in the trenches with the squaddies; that sort of thing is beneath you. You, Hermione, get to dine with the brass. The other trainees know that. Travers knows that. Everyone knows it! If you go out with the enlisted and you witness them say or do something embarrassing, a single incidental mention at a fancy dinner and their careers will be frozen out for good. And it doesn't work the other way around. A distinguished lifetime career is a tenuous prospect for a probationary trainee, but for you..." Tom re-arranged the positioning of his butter knife and bread dish for better aesthetic harmony. "Well, you'll never not be Mrs. Riddle. It's as simple as that."
"How do you know the ins and outs of my job?" Hermione asked suspiciously. "Have you been following me around at work?"
Tom had plenty of free time these days. He wrote his articles and attended Wizengamot meetings at the Ministry: Witch Weekly was his Monday, and Tuesday was for going over the legal propositions and requests for action submitted over the past week. They were tediously dry, so no more than a dozen Wizengamot members showed up to discuss the documents and strike down whichever proposals they found inconvenient. There was never a "full house" attendance outside of the most exciting courtroom trials, and since the defeat of Grindelwald, those were few and far between.
The rest of the week was holiday time for Tom. Meanwhile, Hermione pushed bowls of gruel through the door flaps of Azakaban prison cells. And even with his abbreviated work week, Tom's wages were several times Hermione's. Thus it was only fair Tom paid for the townhouse in Great Hangleton that they'd moved to not long after their marriage. Hermione had announced she'd grown tired of the meaningful looks Tom's grandmother gave them every morning at the breakfast table, and Tom, wanting to continue the nightly activities that earned such scrutiny, did not bother to form even a vestige of an argument.
"I don't have to," said Tom. "It's called Basic Peon Management. Once you understand how the peons think, the world makes a great deal more sense. But the lesson here is to stop trying to assimilate into the peon mentality. It's like teaching a wizard how to be a Muggle: a waste of time for everyone involved." He waved his fingers and sparkling crystal bowls came zooming out of the kitchen. "Now how about the next stop in my dinnertime tour of Italy? Florentine gelato scoops in pistachio and lemon mint. I have a feeling that homemade gelato will feature in this year's summer entertaining special edition trifle. Ah, but which flavour could it be? You'll just have to wait and see!"
Hermione ruminated over the tribulations of inter-departmental communication throughout her lunch hour, picking over the remnants of Tom's latest Italian concoction, an aubergine stuffed with savoury rice, wild mushrooms, and bacon lardons. It was a gourmand's interpretation of the classic British jacket potato; she expected the housewives would love it. She noticed the office secretary, Madam Eachran, bustle into the lunchroom, unpinning the current duty schedules to put up new ones in their place.
"...Another strategy is to combine the technical and physical. Two small, fast Chasers, who can sub in for a Seeker when needed, to get those passing sequences in. And one bruiser of a Chaser to collect the pass, challenge the Keeper, punch through the goal. Very modern stuff. You see the technical Chasers in teams that put women in their starting seven, though not everyone does it for sensible reasons, of course," nattered Rosier.
"Why not?" asked Hermione, who was suddenly interested. "Women can fly broomsticks just as well as men can. The Cleansweep Four was designed by Lavinia Turnstall of Tinworth Village. She's a specialist metalwork enchanter who did those newspaper interviews about the whole, you know, train thing."
Rosier coughed. "I know that. I have a sister, don't I? It's just that women in the squad puts tension in the dressing room. Players' decision-making becomes suspect in the heat of the moment. 'Oh, am I passing to Jefferies because I fancy her, or because she's in a good position for finishing the piece?' Lots of Quidditch managers don't want to bother with the antler-rattling and mating displays, so they keep the squad to one type. Witches are fine for pick-up Quidditch in the village green, but in competitive Quidditch, some things are more important than coddling people's feelings and being nice. You can't have distractions when eternal glory is on the line!"
"Do you think that my being an Auror puts tension in the dressing room?" said Hermione.
"No," said Rosier bluntly. "No one's going to lose his head and fracture the dressing room over you. Your husband has made sure of that."
"Tom promised me he hasn't been interfering—" Hermione began. "Madam Eachran's changed the schedule. She's taken me off the Azkaban roster for next week and... Look, she's put me in for the World Cup entourage! Why has she done it? I don't have relevant language skills, and I never applied for consideration. Argh, I was going to use that time to finish the duty logs that Mr. Nevin assigned me."
"Pearls before swine," Rosier sighed. "You ought to be as excited about front-row seats to the Quidditch World Cup as you were for your wedding day."
.
.
Tom was amused when Hermione told him about her unfortunate upcoming attendance at the World Cup. As had become their usual habit, the most candid conversations were conducted in the private sanctuary of their bedroom. Tom had made it into an exact copy of the former guestroom he had inhabited at the Riddle House. The plaster moulding on the ceiling was the same, but slightly cleaner as the fireplace was never lit with real flames. The carpets were Transfigured replications. Tom had even hired Mr. Pacek to enchant the windows for a view of the Riddle House lawns and the metalled path down to the graveyard.
("It's not strange. As much as one can appreciate the value of family, every man needs his own castle with peace and quiet. Is this not the perfect compromise?" Tom had said smugly. "Yes, I am quite capable of compromise. I can see my family from here, and they're always quiet. Look at how much emotional development I've had!")
"I'm shaping up to be the top-rated recruit in this year's intake," said Hermione, scowling into the pillow. She felt the warm pressure of Tom's hands smoothing down her back, kneading away the frustrations of the day. "Being one year in means the Auror Office has formed a good idea of who's not worth the resources to train and retain, and who's going to have their pick of prime positions between the various sub-departments. The prime position gets first choice of schedules and duties. No overnight or weekend shifts—everyone tries to drop them, but only a few people succeed. That person ought to be me." Hermione huffed. "I've been working on organising the record room, chasing down several years' worth of missing reports, some from Aurors who have transferred to other departments. I'm working on a new, cleaner and clearer system. If I disappear for a week, they're going to take it as an excuse to skive off and put everything back to how it was. Who knows what state the records will be in by the time I get back! And I'll be back just in time for the annual review. I know I'll do well, of course, but I've reached the point where I'm comfortable being in the top five, and now I've got to prove I'm Number One. This is worst time to go off on a holiday—and probably to some Godforsaken leaky little tent allotment in the camping grounds... in Belgium!"
Tom dug his thumbs into the muscles of her shoulder. Hermione scrunched up the pillow with her fists. "Ughhh," she groaned. "I hope you're not going to tell me that I chose to take these burdens onto my own shoulders by joining the Ministry."
"I'd never," Tom replied, curling up beside her and pulling the blankets over them both. "I'm going to tell you that you won't have to worry about leaky tents or being Number One. You're going to share a tent with me, and it's going to be luxury. The Minister will have a few quiet recommendations dropped in his ear by a trusted source." He sighed, nuzzling into her neck. "Mmm... Hermione. We're going to be in the Minister's box at the World Cup, and make sure important wizards know the name 'Riddle'. You'll have a good time, and when you come back, everything will be top-hole; I guarantee it."
"That's a rather optimistic promise you're making," said Hermione. "And I thought you were the cynical one, of the two of us."
"It's not cynicism, it's realism," said Tom. "The Wizengamot can re-allocate the annual budget from one department to another, and the numbers all add up in the end, so there's nothing legally untoward about it. The Office of the Minister shuffles funds around every time the old Minister goes out and the new one comes in. Why can't I decide which department gets some gold? A few lines on a scroll, a few chats over a good dinner, a few signatures signed, done." He scoffed. "People have such an unworthy habit of treating Wizengamot members like we're all geriatric layabouts on the cadge, but no, we're actually quite crafty when we want to be. No one amasses this much power by accident."
"And here I was, thinking that you'd settled into enjoying your two-day work week."
"It's a hard graft fitting all that work into a measly two days," said Tom. "I don't sit idle on my days off, believe me. I got the house in order, I paid the Ministry for the Floo connection, and the local Muggle council for the bin fee. Lots of pointless jabber with the wielders of the almighty rubber stamps; it's exhausting pretending they shouldn't be grateful for a chance to bask in my presence. Anyway, you know what they say about those who work hard."
"Oh?" Hermione rolled around to look at Tom. "What do they say?"
"We play just as hard," said Tom confidently. His hand crept up to the buttons in her nightgown.
Hermione evaded his grasp, rolling over to the bedside table where her wand lay. A swish of the wand and the lights were snuffed out—another one of Tom's efforts in enhancing what he, rather euphemistically, termed "The Marriage Experience".
In the dark, she felt a pair of hands drag her back to the centre of the bed. A hot, bare chest pressed against her back, and a series of light and fluttering kisses peppered the nape of her neck. Nimble fingers hiked up the hem of her gown, then dove inside her drawers, cupping the soft flesh within. The fingers teased and stroked, causing Hermione to let out a desperate whimper.
Tom chuckled, and the rumble of his laughter was felt as much as it was heard. She could sense the gleefulness of Tom's grin in the bared teeth scraping down the arch of her spine.
The bow along the neckline of her nightgown fell open, and her breasts spilled out into Tom's grasp. With a hum of self-satisfied relish, he squeezed and cupped at her, then placed his hand in the middle of her chest.
"Hah," he breathed. "You always get so quiet with me when the lights go out. Tell me, Hermione, how many doses of medicine does it take to cure your shyness? Nevermind, I know that your body always speaks the truth, even if your mouth won't do it." He fell silent for a moment, while Hermione's heart pitter-pattered beneath his hand. "It's a language beyond words, isn't it?"
His fingers inside her drawers began to move, producing a delightful friction when he rubbed against her... there. Her breaths stuttered; her eyelids flickered in pleasure. Tom drove a finger inside her with a sticky squelch. Hermione couldn't suppress the gasp that burst out of her, or the procession of gasps that followed with each pump of his finger. A second finger pushed in alongside the one already eliciting such embarrassing—and entirely unintentional—sounds from her body, and Hermione felt the exquisite pressure stretching her open from the inside.
"Tom..."
"Yes, Hermione?"
"I think I'm convinced you enjoy this more than I do," she whispered.
"Why on Earth would you think that?" asked Tom, and despite being unable to see his face, she could feel his amusement.
His fingers kept pumping in and out of her. Her inner thighs were wet and slippery. The back of her nightgown, loose and scrunched messily around her waist, had grown damp. Tom's naked chest clung to her back, their skin peeling apart and slapping back together with each rhythmic movement. He had added a third finger, and Hermione felt she was at her limit; she couldn't possibly take any more—it was far too much heat and pressure and stimulation—there had to be an end to this skilful torment—
She found herself grinding against Tom's hand, a whine escaping her clenched teeth. Tom's arousal pressed against her lower back and, their legs tangled together, the great onrushing wave of relief swallowed her up. She bucked, but Tom's weight was upon her, keeping her pinned in place; he slid her drawers down her slick thighs until her knees were trapped together, and in the narrow gap of her closed legs, Tom pushed forth and pressed his entire length inside her pulsing, clenching depths...
His hands gripped her about the hips, controlling her movements, pulling her back down the bed as his thrusts propelled her up near high enough to smack the back of her skull against the wooden headboard.
Languid in her release, Hermione allowed Tom to drape himself over her. As he moved atop her, carefully taking some of his weight on his elbows, the heat and pressure began to build up again within her like the stoked embers of a fire. It was different than when he used his fingers, she thought. Or his mouth. He could get a lot deeper when he held her like this and moved inside her like that. And it wasn't just the stretching sensation she felt when he was sheathed within her to the root, but a magnificent fullness whose existence she was unaware of until Tom had presented her with a practical demonstration.
She sighed in pleasure, tightening the muscles of her stomach until she'd provoked Tom into making his own unintentional confessions.
Tom hissed in her ear, twitching inside her, and a hot gush of liquid trickled down to her sodden, crumpled nightgown. Instead of sliding himself out, he continued to rock against her, coaxing a second release from her over-sensitised body.
They lay together beneath the blankets, holding hands in the dark, Tom still refusing to withdraw. She felt him, softening in spite of his inexhaustible enthusiasm, both of them savouring the quiet affection that came of sharing the heights of such an incomparable ecstasy. A year ago, she had thought December of 1945 far too early to a date to be married. Married at nineteen! The twelve-year-old Hermione would never have believed she'd be married to Tom Riddle. But now, firmly within the newlywed stage of life, she had begun to understand why Tom had rushed headfirst into it. Tom's ardour was like nothing she had ever experienced. Nothing like he had ever experienced either, which led to some initial awkwardness. On her part, at least. Tom was not the least bit self-conscious in the bedroom, even when he was naked with his interesting bits flopping about all wet and sticky...
"It'll be the Americans and the Swiss," said Tom abruptly. He had been tracing the shapes of unknown runes on Hermione's shoulder.
"Sorry," said Hermione. "What are you talking about?"
"The finalists of the Quidditch World Cup," said Tom. "That's who will make it to the last stage. The biggest European national teams have struggled to develop much in the way of consistent quality over the past few years, for obvious reasons."
"Er... What has this got to do with anything?"
"If you care about advancing your career, you'll want to cultivate the sort of people sitting in the executive seats. If the Americans place, MACUSA will be in the box," Tom said. "I think I should go too, as the Prince of Charming, international Dark Lord hunting extraordinaire. If you're lucky, I can get you in a front page photograph."
Hermione sighed. "I see that the idea of a newspaper headline gets you excited."
"How do you know that?"
Hermione squeezed around him. "One can tell."
"Ah." Tom paused. "So... Keen to go again?"
.
.
Tom—or the bookmakers, at least—had a done a good job in picking the finalists.
The Americans breezed through the group stage, battling it out in what the sports pages called "The War of the Eagles": four teams, each with their own variant of eagle heraldry. Poland were the White Eagles, robed in red with feathers embroidered down the sleeves, mounted on broomsticks made from white wood. Their Seeker-Captain was none other than international Quidditch sensation Josef Wronski, a fact which posed little significance to Hermione but brought a near-hysteria to everyone else. Mongolia, traditional followers of the Way of the Eagle, part Quidditch philosophy and part national religion. Austria, in black and yellow, were known by their supporters as "The Double Eagles". They were accustomed to the self-imposed rules compliance of the German leagues and quailed at an onslaught of rough scuffles from the cackling Mongols, whose Chasers barged in and out before the referee could whistle a conduct warning.
Then came the Americans, the kings of the Big Sky, to take the lead in score differential. A team of acrobatic wizards and witches, they mixed flair and technique, and bravely withstood the hit-and-run challenges of the Mongolian Chasers with clever upside-down flying and shock drops. At one point in the match, six of seven American players were flying from the bottoms of their broomsticks. The American captain was Samuel Mattabesh, a goalkeeper who ranged out past the hoops and funnelled reverse passes from his teammates like a fourth Chaser. Mattabesh was, as the newspapers described him, "a proper dish". Sparkling white teeth and elegant cheekbones, shining waist-length black hair that whipped in the breeze like a battlefield pennant. He painted lampblack stripes on his face in the fashion of Muggle baseballers, and the secretary witches at the Ministry could not help but find it terribly dashing.
Rosier ripped open the daily match reports at the back of the newspaper, and he wasn't the only one at the office who had been sucked into the so-called Cup Fever. England hadn't even qualified, so why did they care so much? And what about doing the jobs they'd been assigned? They were, after all, on the job!
Rosier said, "We'll be off next week at the final, so someone else will take care of it."
And Travers said, "I'm invested in the results now because I know England can't hurt me anymore."
Rosier patted Travers on the shoulder and they shared a brief moment of silent mourning. The last time England had gotten to the Cup finals was 1866.
"Now, the results," said Rosier, tearing through the printed score tables. "Mongolia lost. Americans to move to the next round. I expect them to flop at the end. Trick moves give them an edge against a team of offensive fliers. Every time someone thinks they can score on Mattabesh, he saves the Quaffle and puts on his playmaker hat. He's not just a regular Keeper, because he can pass to anyone. Long pass, short pass, vertical pass, backwards heel-kick pass!" Rosier shook his head. "But when Mattabesh finally meets a defensive team who will settle for a ten-all draw and string the game along for literal days until the Snitch is caught? That's when his Keeper position and his flair playing hurts him. He can't leave his half of the pitch, nor can he play the sweat-and-blood type of Quidditch you need to break a defensive wall."
"Normally, teams don't play for ten-all draws because it's ugly and boring," said Travers. "If my own team did it, I'd go home early and read the score sheet in the paper the next day. But World Cups are one-offs, so players don't care about making sure the paying audience has got their money's worth as much as they care about bringing the trophy home."
Hermione couldn't comprehend the logic of sports people. Of those, the logic of the Quidditch people was the worst. Why would anyone care about formations, she wondered, when the only player that matters is the Seeker? It doesn't matter how good your Chasers and Keeper are if the other team has the better Seeker. But she kept her questions to herself; speaking her thoughts aloud would lead to Quidditch supporters trying to relieve her ignorance with, ugh, examples and diagrams.
"Bad weather on the pitch, low visibility, the Seeker can't work and the game will be won by the Chasers... And there was this one time an owl ate the Snitch in the middle of the match..."
She would rather be filing incident reports. They were in Auror training, not Quidditch training, and they ought to take their jobs seriously!
(Hermione was not the Head Girl anymore, but the more time she spent amongst a rowdy group of eighteen and nineteen-year-old wizards meant to be moulded into future model citizens, the more it felt like she was still wearing the badge. It didn't help that one fellow trainee, coming back tired from a night shift, had accidentally called her "Mum". When she told Tom about it later, he'd laughed.)
Unfortunately, Hermione's disinterest in Quidditch couldn't excuse her from joining the Minister's party at the World Cup. The next week, she, Tom, Travers, Rosier, and a gaggle of departmental leaders from Magical Games and Sports, International Magical Co-Operation, and the Minister's office were whisked off to a hotel in Charleroi, in the Wallonian region of Belgium, where they were greeted with a beer and canapé social hosted by local bureaucrats. The Minister's senior undersecretary took Tom away to make the rounds, while Hermione wandered over to the buffet table.
Hermione picked up a plate of nibbles: small fillets of raw fish glistening under a layer of raw white onions.
"Is this supposed to be raw?" she asked Rosier.
Rosier had his own plate of fish. "I believe it's lightly pickled. Not even Druella's cat would want to eat this."
"London is famous for its jellied eels. This can't be too far from the mark." Hermione took a bite, then made a face. "Oh. I didn't know there were bones."
A waitress came by and handed them each a mug of dark beer. "Est-ce que tout va bien?" she asked. "Vous voulez de la mayonnaise avec ça?"
"C'est délicieux. Je n'ai jamais mangé quelque chose comme ça de toute ma vie," Rosier replied. But to Hermione, he said, "If you need to, duck behind me and spit it back on the plate. Then Vanish it. No one will notice."
"Alright," Hermione attempted to say through a mouthful of salty, sour fish. She turned her back and pretended to sneeze. "Blarggh. Evanesco!"
"Ça me fait plaisir de voir des étrangers découvrir la vraie cuisine," said the waitress happily. "Alors, vous aimeriez goûter le 'snert'?"
She swished her wand and Summoned two cups of lumpy, yellow-ish stew. Hermione was handed one, and her empty fish plate was taken away. Rosier was handed the other cup, which he struggled to balance with his own fish plate and mug of beer. "Bon appétit!" she told them.
"Oh, joy," said Rosier. "Snert, my favourite holiday treat. All the lads back home will be seething with jealousy."
"Aw," said Hermione, "don't be mean! She'd probably think I'm mad for liking Marmite."
"What's Marmite?" asked Rosier. "I do hope it tastes better than snert."
"Marmite is delicious! It's a salty brown paste you put on toast, made from cooked yeast. There's nothing quite like it..."
Quentin Travers came around a few minutes later, eating from his own bowl of snert. "This is brilliant! It's like mushy peas but without the side of pie. Eating a condiment by itself—I've never heard of such a thing! I swear I saw a fellow eating plain mayonnaise with a spoon, so it must be normal here. Are you going to finish yours?"
Hermione handed over her own snert. "Bon appétit!"
Rosier, juggling his plates and cup, also blessed Travers with an extra snert. "Don't everyone turn and look at the same time... But that wizard behind the buffet table, the one with a cockade of office on his cap, keeps staring at Granger."
She and Travers craned their necks to see. He had a "European look" to him that Hermione was beginning to recognise: upturned moustaches and a pointy, triangular beard. Elaborate white lace on the collar and cuffs of his plain black robes, big golden buckles on his plain black shoes. He looked like a prosperous merchant from the age of tall ships and pepper routes. A "Peperzak", as the history books called their social class. Hermione had studied in preparation for her trip, and realised that wizards weren't aware that Belgium had become its own country in 1830.
"Did you not hear me say not to look?" said an exasperated Rosier. "Oh, now he's taken it as an invitation. Gird your loins, he's coming over. Ah, hello. Bonjour, bonsoir! Si vous voulez discuter, sachez que ces deux-là ne parlent que anglais."
The man replied, "Not a worry; I speak English. Madam, are you the person named on the guest list as 'Hermione Riddle'?"
"Yes," said Hermione suspiciously. "What need do you have of me?"
"Oh, I simply wanted to meet you," said the man, gesticulating vaguely. "I am the deputy ambassador and provincial secretary, Urbaine Piolot. May I inquire as to your relation to a Mr. Tom Riddle?"
"He's my husband," said Hermione.
"Married! And so young! Mr. Riddle must love you very much to be married in the blush of youth," said the man, Mr. Piolot. He gave a meaningful glance to Hermione's stomach. "You have my congratulations. Marriage and a career, that speaks of great ambition. Have you considered advancing your situation abroad? We have lost a lot of good witches and wizards during the war, and anyone of talent, ambition, and good character should be welcomed in the course of our restoration. I heard your husband mention that he had enjoyed his honeymoon on the Continent. Surely you could see the advantage in staying here on a more permanent basis."
"Their honeymoon was in Florence," Travers pointed out. "I'm no expert, but I don't think Florence can be compared in any way to Charleroi."
"One thing's for sure: you wouldn't find any snert in Florence," said Rosier, with a cool laugh. He studied the other wizard, trying to decipher what sort of game was afoot. "If Mr. and Madam Riddle were to hop the Channel and eventually have little Riddle children, they would go to Beauxbatons, I suppose?"
"Well..." said Mr. Piolot, "it is traditional that every Walloon child qualifies for enrollment to Beauxbatons. The Flemings can choose between Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, or some technical schooling for a future apprenticeship. We do well for ourselves here in the magical construction trades, building our villages on marshlands. Training is every bit as good as Hogwarts, I can guarantee!"
"No other school but Hogwarts has a Slytherin House," Rosier said, his eyes narrowed.
"We do not have a house system here," said Mr. Piolot. "What a quaint custom. Imagine being allocated into permanent study units based on an eleven-year-old's personality test. Only you British could come up with such a notion, hahah!"
"Quentin, ask him about the weather," said Rosier. "Granger, can I have a private word?"
"We Britons are particular about the weather," said Travers. "Does it rain in summer here as much as it does in England?"
"More than London, but less than Glasgow. Half the days in the year or your money back!" Mr. Piolot answered. "In fact, it has started raining just now. If you want a closer look, we can open the windows for you..."
Hermione joined Rosier in a quiet corner. "You do remember that my surname is legally 'Riddle', don't you?"
"I'm still getting my head around calling another person Riddle without having to pretend I like him. Or in this case, her," said Rosier. "Look, about that Piolot chap—don't trust him. He's trying to butter you up, but it's blatant politics and he's not trying to hide it. He wants you, and by extension, Riddle, to move over here and be pampered with as much herring and mayonnaise as you could dream of."
"Why bother? As far as he knows, I'm a junior trainee, right at the cusp of completing my first year. I don't even rate as a probationary Auror."
"Grindelwald was the most powerful wizard on this side of the Channel," said Rosier. "They didn't like him much around these parts, but he did advocate for a wizarding Pan-Europa movement, which they did approve of, even if they won't say it aloud. He may have been a Dark Lord, but he was their Dark Lord who ultimately wanted to raise Europe above the chaos he created. Then along come Dumbledore and Riddle into the picture, like pulling a surprise Fool in your tarot reading, and Grindelwald ends up dead. The balance shifts. The two most powerful wizards in this corner of the world are English. You can see why the natives are restless, can't you?"
"Nott spoke of the 'collared warlock' during the battle," said Hermione. "Any rational government would see its value. But warlocks can't be collared, I thought."
"They can't be collared," said Rosier, "but they can be seduced. You've managed to do it, and to the big names in governance here, you're basically an infant."
Hermione frowned. "Oh. They're trying to win me over to get Tom. Is this a taste of what I ought to expect for the rest of my professional career?"
"Lickspittles of every stripe?" said Rosier. "Yes, get used to it. Riddle's certainly thrilled by the attention."
Surrounded by a gaggle of well-heeled companions, Tom preened under their admiration. He dropped a clever little turn of phrase, and everyone chuckled, not least Britain's Minister for Magic, Torquil Travers, and his wife. Mr. Travers was effectively the highest ranked wizard in the room, but Tom had the man beaten for natural charisma. With his abilities, Tom could tell when people liked or disliked him, and when they wanted to grovel for his favour. In one of their late-night bedroom conversations, Tom had outlined his strategy to gather up the grovellers and use their majority influence to target the handful of sceptics who thought him too callow, too unqualified, or too irreverent.
("They dare to doubt me? I'll make them doubt themselves," he gloated at her, idly playing with her messy curls. "By the time I'm done with them, they'll have no choice but to adore me."
"Have I no choice but to adore you, too?" she'd asked.
Tom leaned over and laid a gentle kiss on her forehead. "I'm not done with you, am I, Hermione?")
The flash dish of a camera went off in front of Tom and Mr. Travers, who had squeezed the Wallonian regional ambassador in between them like a sausage in a bun. A reporter witch asked them questions in Dutch, which the ambassador translated to English for the benefit of his guests. Then a cheer from the admirers interrupted the interview, as half a dozen people lifted their beer mugs in their air, and whispers swept the room from all sides.
"What is it?" said Hermione.
"Good news," said Rosier. "Let's ask Piolot."
"Oh, oh, oh!" said Mr. Piolot excitedly, who broke off his conversation with Travers on Belgian weather to chatter to a waiter in rapid French. "Lebanon beat New Zealand, and tonight, just now, Switzerland beat Lebanon. The rain began an hour ago, so the Swiss took off Felix Traugott—"
"Wonderboy Felix," interjected Rosier. "Their nineteen-year-old star Seeker. Fast as an arrow, but on a cold, rainy evening in Charleroi? He can't hack it."
"Yes, they put on Frau Maria, their alternate Seeker," said Mr. Piolot. "Eighteen years of club experience, very solid record. Nearly as long as Mr. Traugott has been alive. The first name on the team sheet for the mid-season winter exhibitionals."
"Maria Capraro," added Rosier. "First-team Seeker at CQ Lausanne. Famous for flying a match in a hailstorm. Dislocated her shoulder, broke an arm and her broomstick, but caught the winning Snitch halfway down a plummet to the ground."
"1936, CQ Lausanne versus Sprudelbier Salzburg," said Mr. Piolot. "Excellent match. Many European teams these days do not play a fearless hero Seeker like that anymore. Choosing the business over the sport, they counted the numbers and decided that points-per-season were higher and injury absences were lower if they took fewer risks. Invest in Chasers and broomsticks, while the Seeker, instead of a craftsman, an artiste, is a passenger on the pitch with one eye watching the score-line and the other watching the Snitch. It is good to see a team who remembers the old traditions of this beautiful game. They did not become traditions for nothing!"
"Sorry," said Hermione. "Sprudelbier? What's that?"
"In English, 'Sparkling Butterbeer'. We have some of that if you want to try it," said Mr. Piolot. "I heard the British drink their Butterbeer without the bubbles."
"The Salzburg Quidditch team sold their naming rights to a brewing company," said Rosier. "All the supporters hated being 'SBSB', but then they changed their minds and decided they liked having money and winning the league. Speaking of winning, tomorrow we'll get to see the World Cup final. Americans against the Swiss. New world flair versus old world tradition. The world's most dominant Chaser team against the world's most solid Beaters. Ooh." Rosier rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "And we're in the front row."
.
.
NOTE:
The Netherlands and Belgium don't exist as independent countries in the wizarding world. The United Magical Provinces of the Low Countries is an alternate universe wizarding Benelux border mishmash that never suffered the wars and revolutions of the Muggle world. The average Low Countries wizard speaks 2 languages and 5 dialects and has a burning rivalry with the neighbouring village. "They look and talk like us but I don't like them because they use a different word for 'bread roll'". See: the barm/butty/bap/bun controversy in England.
Translation guide:
"Est-ce que tout va bien? Vous voulez de la mayonnaise avec ça?" - "Is everything good? Do you want mayonnaise with that?"
"C'est délicieux. Je n'ai jamais mangé quelque chose comme ça de toute ma vie." - "It's delicious. I've never had anything like it in my life." [snarking intensifies]
"Ça me fait plaisir de voir des étrangers découvrir la vraie cuisine. Alors, vous aimeriez goûter le 'snert'?" - "It pleases me to see foreigners discovering real food. Do you want to try 'snert'?"
Snert - traditional split pea soup, a runnier and yellower version of English "mushy peas" side dish.
"Bonjour, bonsoir! Si vous voulez discuter, sachez que ces deux-là ne parlent que anglais." - "Hello, good evening. If you want to talk, these two only speak English."