Chapter Text
1944
The Hogwarts Express arrived at King's Cross Station at seven o'clock, the whistle shrilling at its highest volume, gouts of steam spewing over the brickwork platform and all the families waiting on it. To Tom's amusement, their cries of welcome were stifled in the blast of air and noise, and he could see more than one young child beginning to cry after taking in a faceful of smoke.
His own family weren't there, but the Grangers were. When he and Hermione disembarked the train, Doctor and Mrs. Granger's enthusiastic greetings made him glad of the Riddles' absence. Hermione, of course, didn't mind her parents' smothering embraces, but glancing around, Tom observed many of his dorm mates exhibiting similar shows of acute discomfort: Rosier's mother ruffling his hair, his younger sister tugging him by the sleeve and chanting, "Ice cream, ice cream!"; a grave-looking wizard in robes of plum velvet speaking to Travers, whose shoulders were hunched and expression shadowed; a slender witch with a crown of be-ribboned braids, smoothing down the front of Nott's uniform, while a wrinkly little elf gathered his luggage.
Watching the other families, Tom couldn't imagine the Riddles—his father in particular—in their place, partaking in this world that was his by birthright. The sight of grown men dressed in anything other than trousers, wands in every other hand, the casual use of magic; it would shock his grandparents' staid sensibilities, and his father's volatile temper... And yet, the Grangers didn't bat an eye at the proceedings—not the heavy robes and fur-trimmed cloaks layered with cooling charms to keep from sweltering in the summer heat, the pointy hats whose plumed cockades were still attached to the rumps of live songbirds, or the floating toy broomsticks ridden by screaming children not yet of Hogwarts age.
He himself had no need of whatever notional joy and comfort was derived from parental relationships, but he couldn't begrudge Hermione hers. The Grangers were excited to see Hermione after a year's absence, would wish her a fond farewell when she left for Scotland in September, and after that, Tom doubted that she would be more than an occasional guest in her own home. It was a solemn truth, but Tom was assured of its inevitability.
Hermione was a witch. The Grangers were Muggles. The wizarding world was Hermione's birthright as much as it was Tom's; its draw was inexorable to them both. Hermione could live in a Muggle house, operate a Muggle motorcar, be proud of her Muggle parentage, but it would never alter the fact that she was magical and Special. This summer holiday, perhaps next year's as well, Hermione might call the Grangers' house in Crawley her home, but it would not be so forever.
Tom was certain of it.
(Tom would guarantee it.)
Until then, he could shake Dr. Granger's hand, greet Mrs. Granger, and make polite chatter about the past school year with a smile on his face. He made sure his answers were general, agreeable, and circumspect; it wouldn't do for them to know the precise details of their time at Hogwarts, especially not the pact he'd made with Nott, the secret passage they'd discovered in the girls' loo, or the fact that he and Hermione had engaged in some mixed-gender bathing, an activity that had only taken on a patina of respectability within the span of Tom's lifetime. (Admittedly, his few experiences with public bathing had been limited to the seashore, and never proper swimming pools with paid entry.)
The Grangers were gracious to him in turn, not having noticed how careful he was with his words, putting in a few favourable impressions about last Christmas in Yorkshire, with no mention of the incident with the dog or his father's health. He doubted that the Riddles would have shared this information with outsiders. Not even the well-connected Tindalls had known what irregularities had afflicted Tom Riddle the Elder—other than his position as a landed layabout. But for men of his station, that wasn't considered shameful, if not the most admirable situation for a citizen of a nation at war.
Hermione hadn't noticed anything either, too busy collecting her owl from the train carriage where the pet cages had been stored, and when she'd finally shooed Gilles out of the cage with an order to return home, the crowds had thinned enough to pass through the brick barrier.
"Your grandmother rang this morning," Mrs. Granger told Tom, observing him slide the tip of his wand out one sleeve. He rapped it on his trunk, and it shrank from the size of a standard steamer trunk to the size of a personal valise, the handle remaining its original size for convenience. It was a variant of the Shrinking Charm, but he doubted that a Muggle could appreciate such a fine bit of charmwork.
"She said that there's no need to rush, since she'll have you for the whole summer," continued Mrs. Granger, with the slightest wrinkle of her forehead to suggest that she was quoting Mary Riddle, word for supercilious word. "You can take the Flyer in the morning, and stay the night in London. The concierge at the Royal Aspen is holding a room for you, but I'd like to offer our home, if you'd prefer it. We've planned a special dinner for Hermione, and you're welcome to join us. The hotels aren't counting out the ration tickets like everyone else, but the austerity has reached every corner of Britain. I shouldn't expect them to serve any more than three or four ounces of meat per person, to a dozen ounces of cabbage!"
"That sounds like better fare than what most people are eating at home," remarked Tom.
"One would expect it, if they're asking for one pound twelve per plate," said Mrs. Granger with a sniff. She then turned to Hermione. "Your father and I are both so happy to see you again! It's been much too quiet at home without you; we look forward to every letter, of course, but it's not the same as hearing your voice. Now that you're back, there's plenty to be done—the Ladies' Aid Society is running a donation drive, and then we have Sunday socials to pack comfort boxes for the soldiers—"
"Mum," Hermione interrupted. "I... I'm afraid I can't come with you to the Society meetings. There's been a slight, um, alteration with my summer plans."
Mrs. Granger, who'd been craning her neck and searching the road for the motorcar, which Dr. Granger was bringing around, stopped. She glanced at Hermione, then at Tom, a worried frown flickering across her face, before it was quickly smoothed away. "What do you mean, Hermione, dear?"
"I'm spending the summer at Tom's house!" said Hermione, in a rather breathless voice. "Our exams are less than a year from now, and there's no way we can log our star charts for Astronomy with the blackout curfew in London—Tom has the space to practise Apparition outdoors, too, without the neighbours complaining about the noise—and, and we were going to—to—"
"Shh," said Tom, stepping forward, slipping his hand into hers and giving it a gentle squeeze. "It's alright, Hermione. There's no need to panic."
"Oh," said Hermione, the deluge of words drawing to a trickle as she paused for breath. "I'm not panicking!"
Mrs. Granger searched her daughter's features, eyes darting down to where Hermione and Tom's hands were linked together. "I won't say that I'm disappointed, but it's a very sudden decision to make, Hermione. Have you thought it through entirely? You've been looking forward to volunteering this summer."
"I do want to, Mum," said Hermione, "and I still plan to—on the weekend, maybe. But Tom and I, we—we're..."
"We're walking out," finished Tom. He patted Hermione's hand. "Hermione was embarrassed about announcing it, but I thought it better to just say it, instead of stepping around it for the next few weeks. I hope it's not too much of a shock, Mrs. Granger."
The lines around Mrs. Granger's mouth tightened, but in a steady voice, she answered, "I wasn't expecting something like this quite so soon, but I suppose it was... unavoidable, in a sense. Hermione, you must come to me if you have any questions, anything at all. If you're ever made to feel uncomfortable, or unsafe in any—"
"I would never allow Hermione to feel unsafe," said Tom, his grip on Hermione's hand tightening. He felt her wince, and loosened his hold.
"I believe Hermione to be a better judge of that than you, Tom, well-intentioned or not," Mrs. Granger replied firmly. "Hermione, if this isn't what you want, you can change your mind at any moment. You're an adult by wizarding standards, and eighteen in a matter of months, but you're still young enough that no one—certainly not me or your father—would ever try to rush you into making a decision you're not ready for."
"Mum, please don't worry about me," said Hermione, speaking hesitantly, glancing between Tom and her mother. "I'm not unhappy that Tom decided to tell you. I'm... just thrown because he hasn't prepared me for the news." She gave Tom a sharp look. "We'll have to discuss this later, won't we, Tom?"
"Whatever you want, Hermione," said Tom. "Oh, look. The motor's here. May I take your bags?"
Dr. Granger brought the family motorcar up to the kerb, and after tossing their trunks into the boot—it had been enchanted not only with an Extension, but a Cushioning Charm—Hermione pushed him into the rear passenger bench, drew her wand, and cast a quick Silencing Charm. Then, before Tom could form the first words of his explanation, Hermione's carved vinewood wand turned on him, the tip of it trembling in the air, wavering between the region of his throat and his upper chest.
"Tom!" Hermione hissed. "What in heaven's name was that about!? 'Walking out'! You told my mother we were 'walking out'! Walking—" she drew in a shaky lungful of air, —"out!"
Tom placed his hand over hers, sliding the point of the wand down and away from his throat. "You were speaking too quickly, rambling, and blinking far too often. I could tell that something was off. Your mother could tell. If I'd let you go on, you'd have told her about the Chamber!" He glowered, adding, "Next time, leave the talking to me."
"Yes, and look what happens when you talk, Tom!" said Hermione, clutching her wand with white-knuckled fingers. "I'm not used to lying to my mother. I've never had anything to hide from her."
"Really?" said Tom. "You told her about the time you and I, hmm, explored the Prefects' Bathroom a few weeks ago?"
"N-no!" Hermione said quickly, shaking her head. "Of course not! But that's totally different—not mentioning some minor event isn't the same thing as lying. But you! You just lied to my mother, and she believed you! This isn't something you can take back, and now that she knows, she'll tell my father and your grandmother, and after that, everyone in the village will know! What are you going to do now?"
"Nothing," Tom said, leaning back in his seat. "This will work, trust me, Hermione. If they think we're walking out, they won't question our suspicious behaviour. We are going to make plans about exploring the Chamber of Secrets, aren't we? This way, if we're locked away together for hours at a time—or when we go back to Hogwarts and no one knows where the Head Boy and Girl have gone—they won't ask where we were and what we've been doing. They won't send the teachers for us, or—" his lip curled, "—the Aurors."
He paused for a moment's thought, then said, "They might do, but I'll deal with it when it comes. It'll be easy, once I've laid the groundwork. You didn't expect everyone to believe that we were simply studying for the exams, did you?"
"It's worked up until now," Hermione retorted. "That summer between Second and Third Year, we nearly spent the entire time in the cellar."
"We were children then," said Tom, keeping the distaste for the term from entering his voice.
He'd hated being called a child when he'd lived at Wool's, legal definition or no. The word was saddled with so many associations he despised: that he was dependent on his elders, that he was naïve and immature and impressionable, and in that state, was in need of the firm hand of Moral Authority to protect him from the corruptions of Sin. He'd looked forward to adulthood where all these juvenile trappings, the heavy-handed paternalism, would be abandoned for good. (While he'd had them, however, he couldn't recall any hesitance in using his boyish charms around figures of authority. Dumbledore couldn't resist an opportunity for philosophic debate; Slughorn loved dropping little pearls of knowledge amongst those who could feign both ignorance and admiration.)
"We're still the same people," said Hermione. "Why should we have to change things to suit other people's expectations?"
"Because, pointless or not, other people care about it," said Tom darkly. "And out of all our options, the least offensive one is to make a statement about the situation, regardless of its honesty, because the alternative is to allow room for assumption and speculation. My plan would do you—and I, too, for that matter—the benefit of protecting our reputations. The fact that we aren't children anymore is going to make us a subject of gossip if we're going to continue carrying on like this once term starts."
"I'm of half a mind to let them gossip," Hermione said, wrinkling her nose; Tom's attention was caught by the shifting constellation of freckles on the bridge of her nose, which, just like Virgo and Hydra, appeared every spring and faded away by autumn. "I'll be Head Girl next year, if Lucretia guessed right, and that means I haven't time for silly things like schoolyard rumours."
"Our last year," said Tom, lifting his gaze from her nose and back to her eyes—people thought him more sincere if he looked them in the eyes. "Is exactly when we ought to be most concerned with rumours and reputations, our own in particular. You can be as idealistic as you like, but in reality, most people aren't interested in inventing cures for Dragon Pox—they're interested in the sordid details of other people's lives. Especially if those people are as important as we are. Or will be."
He gave her an imploring look. "If you're upset that I lied, then you should consider that it's only as much of a lie as you want it to be. Last term, we had milkshakes at Hogsmeade every other week. That fits any definition of what it means to go 'walking out', even if you don't count all the, you know, other things."
Hermione chewed her lip, taking her time to consider Tom's argument, while he waited, holding his breath and trying to keep himself from fidgeting, from taking her hand again. It was a common thing in Tom's experience for other people to be so slow, so tediously obtuse. When he came across a problem, whether it was an exam question or a practical dilemma, he could find an answer to it, an elegant and intuitive solution, almost immediately.
(There was a good reason for it: he was a wizard. He was magical. And even without magic, Tom Riddle would still be the most exceptional person he'd ever had the privilege of knowing.)
In Hermione's case, she wasn't obtuse, not in the same way as Matthias Mulciber, a boy who chewed the ends of his quills when thinking his way through a simple question on potion ingredient ratios for half- or double-doses, and struggled to write in a straight line. No, Hermione's thought process involved pondering the moral implications of each of Tom's points. On more than one occasion, he'd found it as maddening as watching Mulciber count on his fingers. But this time, Tom made sure to give a straightforward explanation, which hinged on safeguarding Hermione's personal interests; not only was it sensible and uncomplicated, but above all, it was precise and factual. Nothing appealed to Hermione like facts. Objective facts were free of the burden of moral weight.
His facts were the following:
One. Hermione, when put on the spot, wasn't very good at talking her way out of it. She thought she was persuasive, but her ability to make people do as they were told depended less on the meticulousness of her arguments, and more on her ability to whittle down her opposition through sheer tenacity. This was a useful ability—he himself was not immune to it—but it wasn't one that could have convinced Mrs. Granger right then and there. So naturally, Tom had had no other choice but to intervene.
Two. 'Walking out', the awful Muggle-ish label for what the purebloods called 'courtship', wasn't an inaccurate descriptor of his and Hermione's situation. From the outside, and completely divorced of context, there were only so many interpretations to be made of their unusual relationship. Whichever one of them arrived to class first saved the other a seat; in Potions, they borrowed each other's tools, each trusting that the other maintained their knives and wasn't missing anything from their kit. They always chose each other for partner projects; beyond class assignments and Prefect duties, they sought each other's company. For recreation, for discourse, for the simple joy of being in one another's presence.
Although it wasn't to Tom's taste, such an ignominious label had its uses. It confirmed the nature of his and Hermione's relationship to public consciousness; it was the first step of a process, given enough time, that would result in his ultimate plan coming to fruition. He was still enthusiastic about that plan, despite becoming more and more aware of the number of obnoxious labels he'd have to endure beyond 'walking out'. Nevertheless, he'd endure it. Even if his ears might bleed at hearing someone refer to him as Hermione's 'fancy man', which was just as awful as her being his 'steady girl'.
A success was worth the sacrifice.
Three. Hermione also knew that success was worth a minor sacrifice—of time and dignity, of self-regard. Hermione had prided herself on her capacity to cast aside selfish impulses in the aim of serving the public good; she often spoke of correcting the inadequacies of wizarding bureaucracy, but after Tom's prodding, she had rarely elaborated on the future state of her personal life, deeming it unimportant, of less significance than professional success. Her personal life was something she'd wanted to address years from now, but here the choice was being thrust upon her. In essence it was a pretense, but pretense or not, it was still an unexpected step down an uncertain path.
Hermione wasn't a true Slytherin, but after many years and dozens of exchanged letters, she understood pragmatism. It didn't mean that she liked it, but she did acknowledge that political philosophy and its practical implementation required two different approaches.
Was it even a sacrifice to put on a minor pretense, so slight that it was hardly even pretense at all?
There existed a much greater goal.
(Tom's goal was different, but just as significant.)
Hermione greatly desired success.
(Tom's desire was just as great.)
There was only one answer he could accept.
"It sounds like it has a high chance of going sideways," said Hermione, after some deliberation. "You want to protect us from rumours by spreading your own rumours first."
"A half-decent summary, but not entirely correct..."
"How am I wrong?"
"A rumour is unconfirmed, unsubstantiated information," Tom explained. "It stops being a rumour when we make sure that the confirmation is given first-hand."
"And I'm supposed to be the pedantic one," Hermione huffed. "Alright, if I agree with this plan of yours, we won't have to do anything but smile and nod when anyone asks, will we? Just pretending to be 'normal', so no one will guess what we're doing or why we're sneaking about." She pressed her lips together, brows furrowed. "I don't like it that we even need an alibi. It makes me feel like a... a delinquent."
"Well, it's either that you feel like one, or let other people think you are one," said Tom, without much sympathy. "Besides, it can't be that bad, can it? It's not as if this—giving it a name—changes anything between us."
"Doesn't it?" Hermione asked.
"Would it bother you if it did?" Tom said. "It's a temporary inconvenience. I needed a convincing excuse for your mother, and this one has the benefit of versatility. When we go back to Hogwarts, you'll be Head Girl and the teachers will want to shove whatever task they're too lazy to manage themselves on your shoulders. With this, you needn't do more than say you're busy—which is nothing but plain truth—and they'll leave you alone and find another Prefect to mark their First Year essays."
Watching the light of temptation enter Hermione's expression, Tom put in his finishing touch. "And you've a polite way to refuse all the invitations. You know that during a N.E.W.T. year, people are going to crowd you while you're eating dinner, just to pester you into sharing a copy of your class notes. When you're Head Girl, you'll be allowed to sit at the Slytherin table. No one there will bother you—not when you're sitting next to me."
Hermione shot him a sceptical look. "Was this your goal all along?"
"Oh, Hermione," said Tom, smiling. "We both know that I set my goals higher than that."
"I suppose you're right," she sighed. "Fine. We'll go along with this plan of yours, but if it doesn't work, we'll think of something else. 'Walking out' isn't a permanent commitment, after all."
No, thought Tom. Not for now.
"I promise it'll work," he said, "as long as you don't go around giving the game away."
When the motorcar pulled into the Grangers' drive, Tom very gallantly made a show of holding the door and helping Hermione with her luggage. Mrs. Granger observed the scene with narrowed eyes, but in the end, there was nothing she could say. Gilles, who'd arrived before the Grangers, flapped down from the roof guttering to her shoulder, and with one last cool glance at Tom—and a concerned one at Hermione—Mrs. Granger swept into the house, which had not changed in the year since Tom had seen it: it was clean, well-kept, and modern.
There was no pretension, but no elegance either. The Grangers' house, like all the houses on Argyle Street, had been built to fit the dimensions of their square suburban lot. When he stopped to hang his coat on the coat rack by the door, Tom noticed that he could see to the other end of the house from the entryway. Somehow, the rooms felt smaller than he remembered, the lintels too low, the staircase too narrow; it was a sight so familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time. The soles of his shoes squeaked on the linoleum tiling, and, wistfully, he recalled the gleaming parquet of the Riddle House's foyer, and the thick, knotted pile of the Oriental carpet on his bedroom floor.
When he'd been invited to live with the Grangers in the summer before Third Year, their house had seemed like an impossible luxury to him. Back then, he had had no other frame of reference than Wool's Orphanage and Hogwarts. A radiator in every bedroom, a bathroom with an indoor toilet and taps with hot water that flowed clear—and never left a sharp, metallic taste on his tongue after he brushed his teeth. Seeing it had confirmed his assumptions of the Grangers' affluence, if their family motorcar, Hermione Granger's casual donation of several dozen books, or Mrs. Granger's Christmas contribution of twenty-five pounds sterling (two months' wages for an orphanage minder, he'd later heard from an eavesdropped conversation) hadn't already established it.
And now, studying the interior of their house, he had the impression that something about it was lacking, but there was nothing he could place as missing from the walls or the rooms themselves. The wireless in the sitting room was still there; the framed prints hadn't changed, with the exception of a more recent photograph of Hermione, wearing her Veterans' Gala formal dress, at the far end of the hall.
He wasn't given a chance to think more upon it; after they'd dropped their luggage off in their bedrooms, he and Hermione were told to wash up for the 'special dinner' that Mrs. Granger had mentioned at the station. By the time he'd made it down the stairs, it was a quarter to eight, and he was looking forward to dinner. He had only eaten a pumpkin pasty from the train's snack trolley for lunch, along with an apple taken from the basket at breakfast, and Mrs. Granger's offer of a special dinner had made a creditable effort in swaying him to stay the night. If he had gone direct to Yorkshire, he placed his arrival at an hour before midnight; it would have offered him a choice between having his supper in the dining carriage, where the rationing rules applied, or a supper at the Riddle House, leftovers saved from his grandparents' table and sent up on a tray.
And that was irritating on a personal level, because food was one of the few things exempt from most magical manipulations. Tom could double the amount of food if he had some to start with, but enlarging the tiny meat portion as served by a train attendant wouldn't make the ration regulation meatloaf taste any better. He could warm up any leftovers prepared by Mrs. Willrow, the Riddles' cook, but it wouldn't change the stale texture of the bread, baked fresh and delivered before dawn by a village boy on a bicycle.
Skin tingling from a thorough scrubbing in the upstairs bathroom, Tom pushed open the dining room door, expecting a spread of Mrs. Granger's favourite home recipes, which he'd eaten every day for two summers in a row—some combination of Beef Wellington, braised leg of mutton, liver and onions, or stuffed chicken roulade, paired with an assortment of vegetables and bread. Good British cooking, with more vegetables than he preferred, but still more appetising than the stranger dishes he saw on occasion at the far end of the Slytherin House table. (He'd asked about it, and as it turned out, one could request specialties like potted neat's tongue or pigeon fricassée on weekends, by sending a note to the kitchen staff. Stiff drinks and the rarer magical delicacies, though cooked by the same kitchen staff who serviced the rest of the students, were strictly limited to Slughorn's table.)
He didn't recognise the food on the Grangers' table as Mrs. Granger's cooking: skewered fish, their silver hides marked with rows of charred black lines, meat dumplings wrapped in boiled leaves, a suckling pig curled around a pile of roasted onions, heaping bowls of seasoned rice, and colourful salads of raw vegetables topped with crumbled white cheese, olives, and the bright ruby seeds of a pomegranate. Tom had never eaten a pomegranate before; he'd only seen them dried on strings or brined in jars at the apothecary—the textbooks said they were useful in reducing inflammation, but his own experience was limited to using the shredded bark of a pomegranate tree as an ingredient in the Deflating Draught, an O.W.L. curriculum potion.
The explanation for this strange meal lay at the end of the table.
Mr. Pacek sat at the end of the table smoking a cigar, an odd, glistening bubble enveloping his mouth and chin. When the door opened, Mr. Pacek drew his wand from his pocket and swished it through the air. The bubble popped; a thread of smoke spiralled out from his lips and into nothingness; the contents of the ashtray on the table before him were similarly Vanished, then the ashtray itself was sent flying over to the sideboard.
He pushed himself up from the table, and Tom noticed the man had done it with a certain stiffness that suggested a mix of awkwardness, injury, or fatigue. It was a moment's undertaking to catalogue a list of further oddities—the dark circles beneath Mr. Pacek's eyes, hair longer than Tom had seen it a year ago, and a change from his eclectic style of dress; on previous occasions, Mr. Pacek had passed as some sort of Muggle professional, unremarkable on a typical London street. Today, his ensemble included a red waistcoat thick with gilt embroidery, and loose trousers tucked into tall boots of tooled and polished leather. Nothing about it revealed his magical origins—there was no robe, and in the style of most wizards who ventured among the Muggles, the wand pocket was tucked inside the breast of the jacket—but Tom found it overall a strange look.
"I am pleased to join you for dinner tonight," said Mr. Pacek, flicking his wand at the food. "One should take the chance to dine in good company when it is offered..."
A gust of air whistled through the room, fluttering the curtains at the window, and an instant later, Tom could smell the food: roasted meat, fat trickling down the crisp skin of the piglet, a pan of iced buns oozing with honey and stewed currants, the pungent aroma of the grilled fish.
It must have been a Stasis Charm, and a complex one at that—each dish would have been kept at a different temperature. Some hot, some warm, and some chilled, all at the same time. It wasn't a spell that required a powerful wizard, like one of Dumbledore's magnitude, but rather, one with great power of concentration, as this kind of magic relied on consistent and attentive visualisation.
Hermione would be able to do that, Tom thought to himself. She's a great witch; she can already hold a Shield Charm longer than I can. Although mine can deflect more jinxes than hers, so it balances out. Plain evidence that greatness calls to greatness.
"...My thanks to Doctor Granger for the very kind invitation, and the lovely Mrs. Granger for extending her hospitality this evening," continued Mr. Pacek, as the Grangers chose their seats and looked over the food, which consisted of familiar ingredients—pork and meatballs, courgettes and cucumbers—prepared in foreign ways. "I do hope to return their hospitality—good food for good company, and what goes better with it than good drink?"
During dinner, Tom's impromptu announcement was shared by Mrs. Granger over the carved piglet, while Hermione bit her tongue and pressed her lips together to keep herself from voicing a denial, which Tom could see she was clearly tempted to do. He slipped his hand under the tablecloth and felt for hers, which made her jerk in her seat and drop her fork with a clatter, but after that, Hermione relaxed somewhat and began to enjoy the food. This was helped by Mr. Pacek producing a small wooden cask, tapping it, and Summoning the beer into their glasses in a graceful stream, twirling through the air above the table in bright golden ribbons before pouring right up to the rim without a splash.
"Did you cook this yourself?" asked Hermione, picking at the last bite of her cherry strudel, dusted with powdered sugar. "This is quite a lot of food. You and Mum must have been in the kitchen all day to make this dinner; the five of us here haven't even finished half of it."
"No, this was prepared by a classmate of mine," said Mr. Pacek. "A friend from my old school days, Madam Anna Sergeyeva Kr—"
He paused, a sudden uncertainty deepening the lines on his forehead. "I am at present unaware of her preferred surname, as I have been told she is leaving her husband's house to return to her father's."
"Oh," said Hermione. "Um, is she divorcing? I've never heard of a witch being divorced, unless it was in a marriage to a Muggle, and officiated by a civil magistrate. I am not sure if the Ministry of Magic administrative department even grants divorces—though I imagine things must be very different outside of Britain."
"It was not a divorce, Miss Granger," Mr. Pacek replied, and his face looked as if he was being beset by a bout of indigestion. "She was widowed last week, and this feast was prepared for the funeral. The circumstances of her late husband's death resulted in low attendance at the burial ceremony, and the food was offered to the remaining guests." He nodded at Mrs. Granger. "I can sense your concern—I assure you, it is entirely unwarranted. Wizards may be unfamiliar with your icebox contraptions, but we understand the concept of animalcules, and I am well-versed with charms of preservation. The funeral, in any event, was only held this morning, so everything has remained quite fresh."
"Why didn't anyone come to the funeral?" Tom asked.
Though the empty platters had been cleared throughout the meal, Mr. Pacek had produced even more new dishes from a basket on the sideboard. Course after course, plate after plate, strings of cured sausages, a steaming tureen of vinegary tripe soup, mushrooms in pungent scallion butter, so much food that Tom had not seen the colour of the tablecloth since the beginning of the meal. This was much more than one could expect five people, even five hungry people, to eat.
"Tom!" said Hermione.
"You asked about divorce, and that's just as sensitive a subject!" Tom countered, and in a softer voice, he whispered to her, "It's not like I went and asked about everyone's religious affiliation, or whether they regretted voting for Chamberlain the last time around."
Hermione response was to bump him under the table with her foot.
"They were frightened of potential repercussions," said Mr. Pacek, observing Tom intently. Tom attempted to keep his curiosity from showing on his face, twisting his expression into one of mild concern, though without a mirror, he supposed it could just as well be mild constipation. "Anna Sergeyeva's husband supported a government in exile and was killed by Gellert Grindelwald in reprisal. Anyone who accepted her invitation to the funeral would risk being labelled an enemy of the state by the present administration."
"And you went?" Tom said, cocking his head. "I thought you preferred to remain a neutral party to the affairs on the Continent."
"Some things are worth the sacrifice of neutrality," said Mr. Pacek, and for a brief moment, he lowered his eyes; Tom could not tell if it was in mourning or remorse. "A man can resist the stirring of his conscience only so many times before he forfeits the ability to call himself conscientious. Anna Sergeyeva asked me to lay the wards on her husband's tomb, and I found myself unable to answer her letter with a refusal."
"May I offer my condolences, sir?" said Tom. "Do you mind if I ask what manner of wards can be cast on tombs? I've read of witches in the West Indies performing traditional burial rituals, but as far as I'm aware, magical funerals are rare in Europe."
"You have read of burial ceremonies, Mister Riddle?" asked Mr. Pacek. "I recommend that one practice caution when browsing reading material on that particular subject. Their authors have a reputation for exaggerating the more gruesome details, but one cannot deny how the macabre can draw the eye and fascinate the mind. I recall, in the days of my youth, those books were some of the Durmstrang library's most popular. I daresay they have inspired many a student's independent research over the years."
"Including yours?" said Tom.
"Unfortunately, no." Mr. Pacek drew his wand and tapped his glass of beer, the foaming head rising and rising; it stopped an instant before it slopped over the rim. "In my younger days, the subject of my obsession was Divination. You are aware, Mr. Riddle, of the Exemptions to Gamp's Law? Food, gold, love, knowledge—they cannot be produced from nothing, and yet, is that not the essence of Divination? The magical art of divining truth from the depths of darkness, a single thread from a tapestry of unrealised potential. An exception to the exemption..." He cleared his throat and added, "Magical academics are a wonderfully fascinating topic, but I recommend studying some aspects of practical magic if one should like to produce some food or gold now and again."
It didn't take long for Mrs. Granger to gracefully divert the conversation to more pleasant things than war and burials. Tom was put out; at Hogwarts, his information on the state of the war was limited to what the The Daily Prophet printed, whatever was permitted to be published in the few Muggle newspapers that arrived through owl mail, and second- or third-hand information passed to Travers from his father, or Slughorn from one of his former students. At the Grangers' table, the war was fixture of their daily lives, and a rather grim one at that; Doctor and Mrs. Granger had anticipated Hermione's return to be a joyful reprieve from their working routine, and for the rest of the meal, they questioned Tom and Hermione on their summer plans, Mrs. Granger eyeing him coolly whenever Tom made mention of the size of his estate or the convenience of his servants.
After dinner, the Grangers removed themselves to the sitting room for tea, biscuits, and the evening wireless broadcast.
Looking both ways to ensure he wasn't being overheard, Tom cornered Hermione in the hallway, murmuring to her, "If that funeral was enough to convince a fence-sitter to pick a side, I wonder what it'd take to get Dumbledore to make up his mind."
"Are you—" Hermione began, then stopped herself before continuing. Tom had told her about what he'd gleaned from Slughorn, the rumour of Dumbledore's European friend back in his school days. "Tom, Professor Dumbledore's a teacher! I'm sure he's too busy to engage in international political affairs; besides, it's the Aurors' job to handle the issue."
"Dumbledore gets ten weeks off every summer, and two-and-a-half weeks for Christmas," said Tom. "You can't argue that he isn't qualified; if he wanted to contribute, there's no question that he could. And very effectively."
"I thought you preferred that he not be involved," Hermione remarked.
"I prefer that people not resign themselves to impotence unless there's a good reason for it," said Tom. "And in Dumbledore's case, his reasoning isn't good enough. He's powerful. He's talented, and yes, I'm admitting to it. Best of all, his family all hate him, or they're dead—they can't be held against him to keep him in line. If there's anyone with the influence to lure Grindelwald himself into the field, it's Dumbledore."
Tom knew that he was powerful and talented, too. He was at the top of his class; he had eleven Outstanding O.W.L.s to his name; he was a favourite of the Hogwarts staff; he was a published and well-respected writer, esteemed by the segment of the wizarding population who believed that silk chiffon worn after October was inappropriate, and before six o'clock, immodest.
He was thought of as a rising star, and therein lay the catch: his star was still rising.
Tom knew all the coursework for his Seventh Year classes, despite having only just completed his Sixth. He could sit for his N.E.W.T.s right now and score a full set of Outstandings. But in the same manner as his Prefect badge, or even his future Head Boy badge, these were merely student achievements, and Tom, though considered a legal adult, was merely a student. It rankled, just as much as calling Wool's Orphanage home had. They were, would be, temporary labels; Tom would make certain of that.
For now, it was fact. And it was one of those facts that he could try to shift through clever or evasive phrasing, but it wouldn't budge the kernel of reality fixed at the very centre.
Tom Riddle was a scholar of magic. A legal adult, a wizard—not a boy, nor an underage child.
Albus Dumbledore was a wizard of sixty-something years, had graduated Hogwarts with top marks at the turn of the century, travelled the world, and, according to Hermione, had won a Finkley Prize for scholarship, and completed an apprenticeship in France with a famous Master Alchemist.
Tom was seventeen years and seven months. He was a student. His magical expertise was limited to the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts Library, and his travel itinerary stretched no farther than the grounds of Hogwarts in Scotland, his family estate in Yorkshire, and the mews and alleys of central London. He knew the best scrumping spots; he knew where things lost, abandoned, or liberated from their original owners were brokered into new homes; he knew which publicans ran the fairest odds, and which ones had the time and dates of the unofficial races, as the official tracks with the exception of Newmarket had been shut down for the duration of the war.
For all his hard-won knowledge, for all his efficiency in correcting those who questioned his magical might, Tom doubted he could do the same to Albus Dumbledore, let alone Gellert Grindelwald, the looming shadow of the Continent. Tom didn't like admitting it—he didn't even like thinking it—but he knew that joining in the war and earning his Order of Merlin wasn't going to be an easy task. The last time he'd assumed something would be easy, he'd ended up shattering his pelvis, laid out on a Healer's workbench, with the Healer covered up to the elbows in his blood. He didn't have a sensitive stomach, but there was nevertheless something unsettling about seeing flaps of his own skin peeled open and pinned back, while a pair of icy-cold hands fumbled inside his body to retrieve white shards of broken bone and, finally, the twisted little lump of metal that had caused all his suffering.
If he had learned a lesson from the whole experience, it was that Hermione was usually right. Not always, but she could be counted on to come up with some good ideas. She was powerful and talented, and the most useful element of her power and talent was that they complemented his own.
Tom was a student with six years' worth of magical education. With Hermione's six years, they made twelve years together. He saw that, together, they made a credible threat to Grindelwald's battle-hardened lackeys; together, they stood a better chance of tilting the conflict in Europe towards a British victory.
(For now, he would acknowledge that Dumbledore surpassed him. Dumbledore wasn't his superior in talent, but he was superior in experience, and that was due to nothing more than his luck in being spawned years before Tom's parents had even come into existence. Give him a decade, and Tom could see his way to surpassing Albus Dumbledore; give him two decades, and Albus Dumbledore would be soliciting his professional advice.)
"That's your plan?" Hermione hissed. "You want Dumbledore to be your bait?"
"Grindelwald is dangerous," said Tom in a quiet voice. "You've warned me, over and over, that going after him head-on is like poking a tiger in the face. And I agree—I can't say I'm as eager to put my own skin on the line as I was a year ago. The obvious solution is to have someone else do it instead."
"Yes, I told you to leave it to people with more experience—"
"When officials of the British Raj went sport hunting, they hired native guides to set the lures. They'd done it dozens of times before; of course they'd be better at it."
"I believe that the natives were hired for their expendability..."
"Exactly," said Tom, nodding in agreement. "I'm glad we're on the same page here."
Hermione sighed. "Tom, I don't think we're even on the same book."
"You're a fast reader, Hermione," Tom said, holding the sitting room door for her. "I trust you to catch on quickly."
In the sitting room, the wireless on the mantel relayed the evening announcements. Propaganda, public notices, and reminder that all citizens had to carry their gas masks outside the house and ensure their windows were properly blacked out to stymie the German bombers. Every household would be inspected on a monthly basis by a corps of volunteer auxiliaries, and anyone who failed to cover their windows would be fined. The list of announcements droned on and on; after the first twenty minutes, Tom found himself concentrating more on Hermione, who'd curled up on the sofa cushion next to him, the first book from her summer reading collection open on her lap.
When her attention was ensnared within a world of ink and parchment, awareness of her surroundings was minimal. Tom wondered if Hermione would notice if he laid his arm over the back of the sofa seat. Wasn't that what young men did when they invited a girl to the cinema for a picture show?
There was a brief bout of uncertainty, followed almost instantly by a bout of disgust. What other young men did or said or wanted had no relevance to Tom. Other people chased after saccharine delusions of romance—if the word romantic could be applied to the pursuit of a single evening's entertainment. Those that wanted something longer-lived sought to fulfill an uninspired biological objective: a secondary entity to either win the bread or serve it to their handful of wailing offspring. It was profoundly insulting to apply those standards to himself—or to Hermione. He was better than this, and she deserved better.
While Tom contemplated the implications of 'walking out' with Hermione, Doctor and Mrs. Granger held a low conversation between themselves, glancing over at him every once in a while. Mr. Pacek scribbled notes into a leather-bound diary, referring on occasion to a mechanical calculating machine, a small metal drum the size of a salt cellar, marked with numbered notches down its length, a rotating handle fixed at one end.
When the broadcast ended, Mr. Pacek tucked his equipment into his trouser pocket—Tom noted that the calculator went in without a lump in the fabric—and bid goodnight to the Grangers.
Tom took it as an excuse to follow him out the door, catching him as he retrieved his wicker picnic basket from the kitchen and had gone to unlock the tradesman's door that led out into the Grangers' small back garden.
"Mr. Pacek," said Tom, flicking his wand to the shut the kitchen door behind the two of them, and cast a Silencing Charm, "can I speak with you?"
"Mr. Riddle," said Mr. Pacek, the lilting inflection of his speech as much a question as it was an indication of surprise. "What is it?"
"Are you going back to the Continent?" asked Tom.
"Have you an interest in joining me?"
"No," said Tom. "I just wanted to tell you that you're being watched."
Mr. Pacek's expression didn't change. "Everyone these days is under observation, even the Muggles."
"The Ministry's watching you in particular." Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out a scroll of parchment. Marked File #DI-682 at the top, it was crinkled and folded where Tom had read and re-read the names since he'd retrieved the list during his visit to the archives.
He offered the scroll to Mr. Pacek, who took it and slowly unfurled it, drawing his wand and murmuring a few spells over the paper.
"So," Mr. Pacek said, finally, his voice flat. "It is as I suspected—your Ministry has been tracking the Portkeys. No matter; I have always requested ones for the most popular terminals."
"Do you think the Ministry is unfairly targetting Europeans?" said Tom. "If Hermione knew about this, she'd start a letter-writing campaign to the Ministry on your behalf."
"No," replied Mr. Pacek, looking over the list. "No, I understand why your government might employ such a strategy, and why certain personages would find themselves worthy of interest. But my name, it appears, was recorded over four years ago, and yet, in all that time, I have never been apprehended or shadowed by Ministry officials; if they had followed me, they would have discovered and Obliviated the Grangers. If this is their strategy, then I expect that they have not had an easy time of separating the wheat from the chaff."
"I'd assumed that any competent wizard would be successful at evading the Ministry, because they hire for names and connections rather than ability," said Tom. "But, sir, do you mean to say that you could tell the difference between 'wheat' and 'chaff' on their list?"
Mr. Pacek's mouth tightened in a faint grimace. "The great families of Vienna and Brandenburg concern themselves with preserving their hereditary rights of patent—rights to manufacture, to import, to hunt and harvest from the few remaining magical forests, and so on. Those who are well-connected have no difficulty in establishing themselves a position after graduation, and those are not... might do well enough if they have a knack for innovation. If the Ministry had any shred of competence, they would see that not one of these names—Bührmann, Eglitis, Gerdt, Grozbiecki, Khudekov, Lehtinen, Vanhanen—is of the Adel. These are the people who might see merit in revolutionary discourse, the notion of equality for all wizardkind." He let out a snort, continuing, "I recognise many of them from my time at Durmstrang. If only they knew that their Grand Minister himself carries a well-born name."
"Grindelwald is well-born?" Tom asked. "Is that anything like the pureblood families here and their 'Sacred Name' nonsense?"
"The Durmstrang Institute does not tender invitations to wizards born of Muggles, like your Miss Granger. But not all those invited are students of means," said Mr. Pacek. "Many families must save their gold and choose just one child, while the rest are sent to study at a local lyceum. Grindelwald's family was not one of them; they are not the most prominent, and in the last few generations they have had a habit of marrying outsiders, but they still maintain ownership of an estate in the mountains—though I cannot say the same for the money. Revolutions are a costly undertaking."
"If it's known where Grindelwald lives, why hasn't anyone come knocking at his door?"
"One should wonder why no one has captured Nurmengard and released all the prisoners," said Mr. Pacek, chuckling. "Here, Mr. Riddle. I do not know how you came into possession of an original document, but it would do you well to prevent it leaving. Hide it, burn it; do what you must to keep it out of sight." He gave a short bow to Tom and drew his wand. "Please give my best regards to the Grangers."
Snap!
He disappeared with the sound of a door being shut, not the loud gunshot crack of Tom's own Apparition, and soon the noises of the evening resumed their course—crickets chirruping in the summer grass, the hoot of Hermione's owl going off to hunt for its supper, the slide of shutters and doors as the families of Crawley locked their windows for the night.
Tom returned to the guest room Mrs. Granger had given him, where his trunk lay, still shrunken, at the foot of the bed. He enlarged it, unlocked it, and dug through to the bottom, where he found the medicine chest the Healer at St. Mungo's had given Hermione. In the slots that had once held vials of pain potions, there were now rows of Acromantula venom that Tom had collected over the months at Hogwarts. He'd sold some to strangers at The Hog's Head, but the oldest ones, the weakest venom, were of such a low quality that no one had bought them. He took the scroll of names out of his pocket and slid it into an empty vial, corking it and setting it in amongst the rest.
He would think of what to do with it later; he had ten weeks before he would be forced to embrace the strictures of authority and expectation. Until that time came, he was free to enjoy his summer. There was no reason why he shouldn't. No reason why Hermione shouldn't, either.
After all, they were supposedly involved, whatever that meant to anyone who cared about these things.
Tom and Hermione left for Yorkshire the very next morning.
Although he and Hermione could Apparate to Platform Nine and Three Quarters, then cross to the Muggle side of King's Cross, Mrs. Granger still insisted on seeing them off at the platform. She drove them to the station, kissed Hermione on the cheek, patted Tom on the shoulder, and finally waved them off, pressing a cloth-wrapped parcel of sandwiches into each of their hands. It was a kind gesture, but it was offset by Mrs. Granger never halting her close scrutiny of Tom. He was reminded of his days at Wool's; when someone had had something stolen, Mrs. Cole demanded that everyone line up and turn out their pockets, and that Tom Riddle should be the first to do so.
(On other occasions, Tom might have enjoyed being given special treatment, but he hadn't liked that. He found it so unfair that they singled him out—even if they happened to be right eight times out of ten—that by his last few years at Wool's, he'd begun hiding the things he took in other people's rooms instead of his own, his own limited storage space having been dedicated to holding the collection of gifts sent by Hermione. He still wondered if they had managed to find Edith Hurley's mouth organ.)
As soon as the York Flyer began moving, Tom turned away from the window and shut the curtains. He drew his wand and ensured the compartment door was locked and silenced.
"We need to plan how to get into the Chamber of Secrets," said Tom, "without other students bumping into us when we're coming or going."
"Oh, it's the Chamber of Secrets now?" asked Hermione, looking up from her from her book. "What happened to Slytherin's laundry chute?"
"I needed to keep Nott on a leash," Tom said. "He wanted to find the Chamber all along. That means, of course, that there's something about it, something down there, that serves to his personal advantage. And I can't allow it."
Hermione sighed, marking her page with a finger. "I can't recall you having any apprehensions about voting me in as Minister for Magic."
"That's completely different," said Tom.
"I see," said Hermione, huffing.
"Look," said Tom, sliding into the seat beside her and leaning in. "You and I, Hermione, want the same things: progress and order. A leadership with vision, guidance through competence. Any one of these things is rather thin on the ground these days.
"And what does Nott want?" Tom asked, propping his chin on Hermione's shoulder and having a subtle peek at her book—some dull treatise about the enchantments of ancient magical plumbing; he could see a complicated diagram labelled Archimedes' Pump on the opposite page, charmed into an animation that repeated itself in five-second intervals.
"I've no idea, but I bet it's something as uninspired and self-serving as collecting Slytherin's beard comb as proof of his exalted ancestry. And the most bizarre thing is that everyone in Slytherin House would swallow it." Tom took shook his head in solemn disapproval. "Wealthy people, they're worse than magpies."
"Perhaps," Hermione ventured, "he wants the monster that Slytherin was said to have hidden in the Chamber? The legend says that Slytherin intended to purify the school with it, but if that was just made up to scare the other founders, there could still be a creature, either bound or dead, under the school. I suppose it could be worth a lot. That is, if you could get it, and find somewhere to sell it."
"Nott's already rich," Tom mused. "He'd see no sense in using the Chamber for money. No, it's got to be something else... Purifying the school would be up his agenda, I imagine. But if he tried to turn the creature, whatever it is, against us, he'd run a high risk of killing the both of us accidentally, and he can't do that. Not when he needed us to open the Chamber in the first place. Not when I make sure he'll never know the password."
"Well," said Hermione, "you could ask him directly. He's eager to meet with us during the holidays."
"If only I had any eagerness to meet with him," Tom said. "Truth be told, I prefer to see as little of him during the summer as I can. I've other people more deserving of my time."
"On that matter," Hermione began, fidgeting nervously; Tom was so close that if she turned her head, their cheeks would brush. "Are you going to keep up the pretense when there's no one else around?"
"What do you mean?"
"That we—we're, you know, walking out!"
"Well, we are, aren't we?"
"I thought that was just a story you told my Mum," said Hermione. "It's not real."
"Why can't stories be real?" asked Tom. "We opened the Chamber of Secrets yesterday morning, and everyone thinks that's a silly bedtime story."
"What are you saying, Tom? That we are?"
"Why not?"
"Because I've never seen any indication that you've ever cared about or wanted something like that," said Hermione. "What happened to this sort of thing being the province of dullards and fools?"
"You've never seen it, Hermione," said Tom, sliding the book out of her hand and onto the seat, and lacing her now unoccupied fingers through his, "because I am a master of subtlety."
"Really, Tom?" said Hermione.
"Really," said Tom, brushing his cheek against hers.