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"This cannot stand unanswered, of course," Malfoy continued. "It is true, of course, that the Carrows broke their prior oaths to the Gaunt family, but due to the law that we recently passed, I can pardon them, and I will do so."
"My lord father has already signed a pardon to that effect," Abraxas added.
Armand smirked. "Of course, I do not expect the blood-traitor to lift her declaration against the Lestrange family. Therefore we have called you here to discuss retaliation against her for this outrage."
Black glared outward, then instantly rearranged his face. "Oh?" he said mildly. "What do you have in mind, my lord?"
"I want to proclaim her in rebellion against the Wizards’ Council for naming a family seated on it as her enemy," Malfoy said baldly. "I cannot actually accuse her of treason, since she is not sworn to Lestrange, but I can vouch for Lestrange and name her a rebel. This justifies removing the half-blood and Mudblood from Hogwarts, of course."
This was exactly why Abraxas had not wanted the Lestranges present: They would have seconded this view, and Father would have taken shelter under their superior numbers. But Abraxas could see that Black thought as he did about this idea.
"I have... concerns... about that, my lord, with all respect," Black said haltingly. "Even if you do pardon the Carrows, there will be sympathy for Lady Riddle’s actions, because they did break their oaths. Lady Riddle’s brother may have been a loathsome lord, but they continued to avoid their obligations to the family even after she assumed the title."
"She is a blood-traitor who bore a half-blood son and betrothed him to a Mudblood. That is reason enough to break an oath to her."
"Many people will not agree," Black said cautiously. "And another thing, there is a tradition in old English culture that nobles may name enemies among other nobles as long as it is not treason against one’s own lord. There will be sympathy for her, and if you make war on her for this, it risks expanding to include more than just her."
"You do know much about your English traditions," Armand sneered. "What did your people call it? Weregild?"
"That is invoked after a murder," Black said, "but it is another of the same kind of custom."
"We should stamp out uncivilized customs like that," Armand declared. "My allies and I attempted to establish clear lines of authority in this country, as opposed to that anarchic body that you used to have. I do not want to coddle this, and I will not. My mind is made up. I am going to declare her a rebel, expel the half-blood and Mudblood from Hogwarts for their acts of defiance, and try to seize the woman’s castle." He folded his arms and stared out from Black to his son and back again.
Abraxas’s face instantly became calm. "Very well, my lord father," he said in soothing tones. "Your word is law."
"That it is." He summoned Dobby the house-elf to bring them some wine.
Abraxas observed Arcturus Black’s face as they drank their wine. The man was appalled at Lord Malfoy’s behavior, clearly. Would Black support him if he acted against his own father? It was a risk....
Armand had a second goblet of wine. The other wizards observed as he grew drowsy from the drink. Abraxas made up his mind. When his father rose from his seat to get something off a shelf, he decided to act. With a quick glance at Arcturus, he drew his wand and pointed it at his father’s back.
"Stupefy," he whispered. Across the room, Armand collapsed onto a sofa. Abraxas arose and went to where his father lay.
Black was gazing at Abraxas in surprise and respect as the latter wizard cast the complex charm to implant a false memory into someone’s mind. Abraxas felt ashamed of what he was doing, but clearly, it had to be done. His father was not acting sensibly anymore. He felt guilty for his own part in giving him that accursed potion that he regularly drank.
"What came over me?" Armand muttered as his son helped him back into his chair.
"You took a fall," Abraxas explained. "It must have been the wine."
"Do you think that elf—"
"No, Father, I am sure it is just that this is a strong vintage. I feel a bit tipsy myself," he lied.
"Ah," said the elder Malfoy. "Well, I thank you for assisting me. Now, as we were discussing, you think that Burke will consent to marrying the Riddle lady with my new law in effect?"
Abraxas prayed that Black would go along. To his relief, Black instantly spoke in agreement.
"I do," he said, giving Abraxas a private but pointed look. "The law, as I understand it, would transfer lordship of the estate to a wizard husband of Lady Riddle. Burke’s principal objection to the marriage was that he would have been a consort. If he was being sincere, then this should remove that objection."
"He also cited you," Armand said. "He wanted to get your permission first. I am to assume that you will give it?"
Arcturus took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yes," he said. "I will."
"We will have to check on the status of her marriage to that Muggle," Abraxas said. "Even if they divorced, she made her wedding vows as a witch, with magical power behind a sworn oath, so she cannot remarry if he divorced her—unless she is willing to annul the vows, which she surely wouldn’t."
"If he is still alive, it will be no trouble to kill him," Armand said evilly. "And if she refuses to marry Burke, then she will have to hide in that castle, with her son and the Mudblood. That is an act of rebellion."
Abraxas had modified his father’s memories in which he entertained this very set of ideas. Clearly they had an appeal for him anyway. Abraxas hoped that it would not come to that. Surely the woman would see that it was better for her to consent to the marriage than to have to withdraw her son and Granger from Hogwarts and hide behind the magically protected walls of her castle indefinitely.
Arcturus Black soon sent the Malfoys a letter stating that Caractacus Burke had at last agreed to marry Merope Riddle under the terms of Lord Malfoy’s new law. Abraxas was immensely relieved. This was how things should be, tense situations calmed by traditional political plays rather than war.
A couple of days later, he received a second owl. Tom Riddle Sr. was alive, he had divorced Lady Riddle, and he was remarried to a Muggle woman named Cecilia. Abraxas hated to receive that news. He did not like the thought of widowing someone, even a Muggle, merely as a means to an end. He himself had no feud with this Muggle... but it was necessary, unfortunately. They had no children, at least.
Abraxas presented his plan to Rodolphus Lestrange, who was pleased at the "gifts" that the rest of the Wizards’ Council had presented him following their informal meeting at Malfoy Manor. He also liked the idea of his nemesis being under the thumb of a Wizards’ Council ally and was eager to participate in the murder of the Muggle Riddle. Abraxas decided to let Lestrange do the honors. The less blood on his own hands, the better. Burke himself wanted to tag along, and Malfoy had no particular objection, he supposed.
Thus it was that one moonless night that winter, the trio of wizards sneaked into the village where Riddle and his new wife lived. They had a manor house befitting of a Muggle knight. Abraxas wondered why this Muggle was not fighting for either of the Muggle pretenders to the throne, as a knight... but some of the nobles were neutral. Evidently Riddle’s lord was among them. It was a pity; a death in battle would be easy to arrange and seemed somehow less sordid than this dirty business.
Riddle’s manor was on a hill inside the walls that surrounded his lord’s much grander castle. From a distance, the wizards studied the entrance to the smaller house. There were posted guards, but they would pose little trouble for a company of well-armed Muggles, let alone people of magic. Of course, the knight’s manor house was behind the walls of his lord’s castle. These guards were meant to keep out peasants who worked for the lord. The wizards advanced forward—
Lestrange was the most eager. He had bounded forward, wand drawn, ready to kill, but some unseen force had thrown him back violently. He landed on his back, cursing fluently in both French and English.
Burke and Malfoy exchanged wary glances. Aware of the expectations he had as the social inferior of Malfoy, Burke edged forward to the spot where it seemed Lestrange had been flung back. He put a hand forward and met an invisible but solid barrier. It crackled against his skin with what could only be magic, not that there was any doubt about that. He drew his wand and began to cast spells into the air and at the ground, trying to diagnose what sort of shield kept them from entering.
Finally he pulled back and turned grimly to Malfoy and Lestrange. "There is a blood ward on this property," he said.
Lestrange rubbed the small of his back. "That bitch put it up!"
Burke nodded. "She must have. No one else would care. She must have anticipated that your lordships would try to pressure her into a marriage."
"Shrewd bitch," Lestrange repeated.
"What kind of blood ward is it?" Abraxas Malfoy asked Burke.
"It’s a strong one, that’s for certain. I think that she must have used her own blood to anchor it. The only thing stronger than that is a sacrifice of one’s life. This kind of ward will protect the inhabitants of this property from any witch or wizard except her own kin. It protects not just the Riddle man, but also the lord and anyone inside these walls."
Lestrange considered that. "The Gaunts kept it in the family for a long time, but occasionally they did intermarry. Whom are they related to?"
"No one close enough to get through, your lordship," Burke said regretfully. "Blood charms this strong will only allow the closest of kin entry. That typically means a parent, sibling, or child."
"You said "any witch or wizard.’ Does it let Muggles in? It must, if this knight expects to conduct business or admit his own lord to the house," Lestrange said. A glint appeared in his eye. "Why don’t we find a Muggle and put him under the Imperius Curse?"
Abraxas and Burke exchanged looks and tried to avoid showing their contempt for Lestrange. "That will not work," Abraxas said. "A titled Muggle like this one, even a knight, would not allow people to enter his home carrying weapons. Their guards take weapons and even tools away from visitors of lower status. The lord could go inside bearing a sword, but we cannot get at him either, since he is also behind the ward."
Lestrange was downcast. "That’s a pity," he grumbled. "I suppose we have to hope that he goes to war or otherwise leaves this property."
Abraxas thought about it. "We could... but I will see if I can think of anything else."
It had been two weeks since Hermione had fought with Tom, and he was still barely speaking to her. He had returned to his perfunctory polite acts of courtesy such as escorting her around the castle, but their intimacy had vanished. Each night she second-guessed herself as she lay in bed, the weight of the day’s events pressing against her mind.
I’m going to marry him anyway, she comforted herself, twisting the emerald ring on her finger like a good-luck charm. We’re going to marry. He will surely make amends with me long before our wedding, once he has reconciled himself to the inevitable. I just hope that he won’t.... Hermione was unwilling to complete that thought in words. The idea of Tom going to other girls for what she was no longer giving him made her feel physically sick. He never did before me, she thought. He did not even have an innocent sweetheart. He also said himself that he would not touch anyone else—promised it, in fact—and he knows what the vows of a wizard mean. He also knows that he can have me again if he will just take a firm hand with those friends of his and tell them that they have to accept me. Somewhat comforted by this, Hermione plumped her pillow and tried to go to sleep.
Her dreams were turbulent and distressing. A great serpent slithered its way down a dark corridor, taking what Hermione knew in her dream was an inexorable path toward her. She tried to escape it, but finally, the nightmare reached the inevitable conclusion that all dreams of being chased reached.
Right before the serpent found her, the dream shifted as her brain recoiled from the terrible imagining. Now she was watching as a man she did not recognize stared at a witch whose back was turned. Hermione knew the witch was Merope, her own second mother, and she wanted to call out to warn her that the man meant her harm, but her voice was muted. When Merope finally turned around, the wizard had vanished into the ether of dreams.
The dream shifted again, presenting Hermione with an image of Adelaide Lestrange. Strangely, Hermione did not feel the bitter anger toward this girl in the dream that she did in real life. Adelaide was staring into space, unaware of Hermione’s presence, and although Hermione did not know what was wrong, in the dream she felt pity for her enemy in waking life.
She then slipped into deep sleep and remembered no more dreams. Time passed, and the next thing she was aware of was the magical bell that she had set for herself waking her up. She dressed, still brooding over the dreams. The serpent dream was surely a reflection of the fear that Tom would find the alleged basilisk of Slytherin, as well as general anxiety over her relationship with him. She definitely knew that Merope had enemies. What the dream about Adelaide meant, if anything, she could not begin to guess.
Divination is mostly rubbish, she told herself as she left her bedchamber. Dreams do not always mean anything, and it’s impossible to sort out which ones do and which ones don’t. She walked down the corridor and entered the Slytherin common room.
Professor Slughorn was standing in the room, several students gathered around him. Tom was among them.
"The ritual will take place on the first of May, of course," he was explaining to them. "As you undoubtedly know, it will result in a season-long charm of good fortune—a blessing, our ancestors called it—upon the task that you choose to charm, or bless, during the rite. Traditionally, due to the ancient significance of Beltane, this is a romantic relationship," Slughorn said, with a wink at Tom and a couple of others.
Tom did not respond even with a smile. Hermione felt a pang.
"However," Slughorn continued, "there is no requirement in the ritual that it must be. If you are interested in taking part in this ritual, there will be special tutoring in the advanced magic that it will entail."
Tom smiled. "I am certainly interested, and I am honored to be selected for this, Professor."
Hermione stood in the shadowed threshold of the door leading to the girls’ dormitories. Slughorn did not notice her, and she was not sure that Tom did either.
When Slughorn left the room, she took a deep breath and walked forward. "Congratulations, my lord," she said, her tones chilly even to her ears. "I remember you told me that you wanted to do this." She hoped that the reminder of what their relationship ought to be would soften him to her again.
Tom gazed at her smugly. "Thank you, my lady. I believe it is time for breakfast, though." He offered her his arm without an iota of warmth, but she took it anyway. She was not going to be intimate with him in any fashion until he changed his attitude, but she still longed for his touches, even those that meant little.
Tom was frustrated about many things.
For one, it had been more than a month since Hermione had issued her ultimatum and stormed off in anger, and since then, they had barely spoken. They certainly had not been affectionate in any way. The old holiday of Imbolc had come and gone this week. He had meant to tell Hermione about it and observe it with her, as another traditional practice that was already almost forgotten and that the current wave of invaders would surely love to stamp out for good... but instead, he had lit a magical candle, to observe the gradual return of daylight, alone. That seemed somehow ominous to him. He had not expected that she would actually be this stubborn when she had made that statement. He had been sure that she would miss him, feel bad, and come to him within a week at most. Now, Tom was reluctantly having to consider the possibility that she meant what she said and that she would not back down.
What does she expect to achieve? he thought grouchily. She knows she is going to marry me anyway. My mother made me that promise about letting me out, but I’m sure her parents did not. Tom wondered why he thought of that again. He did not want to do it... and he remembered, once again, that his mother apparently knew that they had consummated their engagement. She would not let him end it unless there was a very good reason.
Why am I thinking about this? Tom wondered again. He forced his thoughts to center on Hermione. I just do not understand what she thinks she will accomplish. If something does not change, then someday we’ll have to swear to a Malfoy. The Council has already tried to seize even more power than they did eighty years ago when they placed themselves where the Wizengamot used to sit. They don’t even pretend to observe the centuries of wizarding law—laws that this nation developed before they ever trampled French dirt into English soil. Armand Malfoy has made himself an uncrowned king, and if someone does not stop this, Hermione and I will live at the whim of a tyrant. I have to be that person. I have the bloodline, and I have the ambition. Hermione seems to think that the problems will disappear on their own. They won’t.
Tom’s thoughts shifted to the little group that Hermione occasionally met with, the one with Potter’s friends from other Houses of Hogwarts. He scoffed to himself. If Hermione—if Potter, for that matter—truly believed that their entire goal was to help Hogwarts, then they were definitely practicing willful self-delusion. It was obvious that there was more to it than that. The Longbottoms were certainly trying to recover their own lost status, for which Tom could not fault them. Potter’s parents were apparently descended from vassals of Godric Gryffindor. But what they hoped to achieve, Tom could not decide. They were subjects of Lucius Malfoy, and an uprising in Godric’s Hollow had already failed years ago.
Could they be planning to involve Hogsmeade and Hogwarts in a repeat attempt? Tom wondered. That, at least, made some sense. With outside help, an uprising might actually succeed in ousting Lord Lucius from Gryffindor’s castle. But for how long? Tom thought. He will go to his father and grandfather, and they will crack down. This is very different to Hogsmeade, a free town, swearing to Dumbledore. They have the right to do that. An uprising in Godric’s Hollow would be treason, and the Malfoys would lay siege to the town if it succeeded... and clearly, they took over Gryffindor’s castle from the outside once already, when they first came. I wonder about that... but it must not be that difficult to do. The Potters must know this. What do they want? What does that loafer Sirius Black want?
Then, too, what was the Weasley girl doing? Was she merely out to attach herself to one of the boys who stood to profit from it if their (possible) mad schemes succeeded? Why were none of her brothers involved? Or are they? Tom thought darkly. The older brothers might be involved from outside the school. The younger brothers, the ones who were still at Hogwarts, were a useless lot, in his opinion. The youngest boy seemed to be good for nothing except whinging, and Tom had taken the twins’ measure in his first year of school. They at least had ambitions of earning gold, but they did not care how. They would do business with the Malfoy regime, Tom was convinced, if they thought that was the pathway to wealth. There was no guiding principle, no care for how wizarding society in England, Scotland, and Wales should be ordered. In Hangleton Village, there were a couple of tradesmen—people that Tom’s own mother had empowered to work a trade instead of working the fields—who always tried to get the better of their liege lady on their taxes. The Weasley twins were typical money-grubbing peasants of this sort, and Tom had little use for them. If he had still been without his title, it would have been different, but that was because he had the royal bloodline, and therefore he would have been merely taking what he should have had anyway.
Tom sighed. He really did not know what the supposed "Friends of the Founders" were up to. There were a couple of obvious possibilities, but they really felt too obvious. Tom felt that there had to be something big that he was not seeing, but he could not begin to guess what. He doubted he could find out by cornering one of the Weasleys at Hogwarts and performing Legilimency; he did not expect that the youngest ones knew such information.
He turned to thoughts of his own group of allies and friends. As much as he hated to admit it, he did not have any accomplishments of his own either. He built castles in the air with the boys, but he had not even secured alliances with their families for his mother. Was the reason his betrothal to Hermione? Tom really hoped it was not that. That sort of thing should not matter for alliances of friendship and mutual defense unless the other family was an enemy of someone, and Hermione’s family could not possibly be an enemy of any of his friends’ families. They were Muggles. Wizard nobles probably would not consider them their equals—and he could not really blame them for that—but they were not enemies.
Perhaps the boys have not talked to their families, he thought. Perhaps they need direction from me. I thought it was clear what I wanted, but they are followers, so perhaps they just need to be told what to do in explicit terms. That was what he would do, then. He would make his intentions clear. He would assure them and their families that this was not a game, that it was serious and real.
What about Hermione? Tom asked himself once more. Leave her be for now, or try to persuade her to return to me? He thought about Hermione’s complaints. She had not appreciated the implications he had made to Fawley, which he supposed he could understand... he wished it had not been necessary to make them... but he did believe it had been. And if his friends caught them in a compromising situation again, he would need to imply the same sort of thing again. Better, then, for things to remain as they were for now. It hardly mattered. They would marry anyway someday. This was not a choice between Hermione and his friends. If he deferred his pleasure for now, and focused on alliance-building, he would have both—and he could change the status of English wizards and witches.
Hermione missed Tom’s company especially strongly when the first hints of spring began to appear and people began to make day-long visits to Hogsmeade instead of quick trips to avoid the cold and snow. He did not always go at all, preferring instead to remain in the castle with his friends, and when he did go, he and his group disappeared into the darkest corner of the tavern. It was as if Hermione was not even there, and she felt angry and sick whenever she saw him lead his besotted flock to a table. –A Round Table? she thought darkly. That seemed to be what he wanted.
She wondered what else they discussed. The fabled Chamber of Slytherin, no doubt—and whenever Hermione thought of that, she worried. Had Tom’s interests not been so dangerous, she would have scoffed and ignored his secret meetings. If he wanted to look for a hidden chamber in Hogwarts, let him! But there was the complication that that chamber might contain a deadly magical beast. Hermione would have considered it her responsibility to approach him and try to urge him against the pursuit, but she reflected on the fact that when they were close, she had done just that, and he had ignored her advice.
Hermione found that as winter changed into spring, she went to Hogsmeade less and less. When she did go, it was either with Luna or Ginevra. They would meet up with Harry and the rest of his group. There they discussed school and spoke in hushed voices about other matters if Malfoy’s group was nowhere in sight. Neville’s parents were going to hold the vote in their home as soon as spring was in full bloom.
Hermione was worried about that too. Although it was legal and ordinary, Armand Malfoy would likely do something in retaliation. What else can he do? she mused one day. He has already usurped lawmaking power to himself alone. What’s next?
She was powerless to stop Tom from pursuing his dangerous interests and powerless to prevent the Wizards’ Council from punishing the "Friends of the Founders" or their families for what Hogsmeade would likely do soon. I am the one person who has ties to both of Armand Malfoy’s groups of enemies, she thought uneasily. Tom really has nothing to do with Harry anymore. I’m it, and I was already a target for him because of my blood and the challenge that my parents and Lady Merope raised to his first ruling about Hogwarts. I need to protect myself better than I am. Other people cannot do it all for me. I need to focus on my studies, and on achieving mastery of magic.
To that end, Hermione started to spend more time in the library. It was not as if she was avoiding the place—far from it—but she could always read more. She sat in her bedchamber one afternoon in spring, a parchment before her. It was going to become a schedule. Hermione frowned as she dipped her quill in ink. It was interesting indeed how much time was available in the day if she did not set aside private time for her relationship with Tom. The block of time in the early evening, which she had often spent with him in the small room, was marked "Library." An hour and a half each day, then. That might possibly be sufficient. Hermione could never be quite sure. She rolled up the parchment and placed it in her satchel.
That evening, she left her room again and strode through the Slytherin common room without fear. Draco Malfoy was there, with three boys nearby. Across the room were Adelaide Lestrange and her circle of friends. Hermione ignored them, merely making sure that no one cursed her or rose to follow her. She observed as she passed through the room that Tom’s friends were there, but Tom himself was not. Harry was not in the room, but she supposed that he was likely with Neville—or perhaps Luna. She opened the door, exited the common room, and closed it behind her.
As she walked quickly down the corridors, she kept her wand at the ready. No one had followed her immediately, but if someone had observed that she was alone and decided to follow her just after she had left, it would be easy to catch her. However, she made it to the library undisturbed. Breathing a sigh of relief, she pushed open the huge doors and entered the grand space.
Hermione had a study plan and quickly made her way to the section of the library about transfiguration. She selected a large tome from the shelf and carried it to a chair next to one of the tall stained-glass windows. Soon she was absorbed in the book. She almost did not notice when a tall black-haired wizard walked by.
Tom stopped cold as he saw who else was in the library mere feet away. He glowered at her, clutching an armful of books close to his chest. She set down her own book and glared back at him. What was he on about, anyway? She had as much a right as he did to use the library.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
She gaped at him. Her eyebrows narrowed. "How dare you ask me that?" she said. "You do not own this library."
He sneered. "No one else is here. Are you following me?"
"Absolutely not. For all I know, I was here first. I am studying, Tom. It’s what I came here to do." She gazed at the titles of the books he had. "Ancient Inscriptions of Ogham and Pyromancy. Pyromancy, Tom? Maybe I should ask what you are doing here."
"They are for the Beltane ritual," he said, affronted. He clutched the books closer. "Of course, you weren’t chosen for that, so I suppose you would not know about the kinds of magic that we’ll perform."
Hermione drew her wand fully and pointed it at his face. "Watch your words, Tom. You weren’t chosen for it either when you were at my level last spring. And I know what both kinds of magic are, I will have you know."
"Good for you," he said snidely. "Now, lower your wand and don’t ever point it at me again."
She rose from her chair and stormed toward him, her wand out. Although she walked fast, his reflexes were just as quick. Before she reached him, he had shifted the books to one arm and drawn his wand to point it at her. His gaze was set and angry.
Hermione was unafraid. "Do not tell me what to do, Tom Riddle."
He laughed. "The only reason you even think about challenging me is your exposure to the magical community and the fact that we keep the ancient Celtic custom of honoring witches. If you were still among Saxon Muggles and Norman toadies, you would sit back meekly and do as you were told, because you would not know any better." The smirk vanished from his face. "Remember that, Hermione. If the Wizards’ Council continues to rule, you will eventually be reduced to the status of a Muggle woman."
"You have already done that with your treatment of me. You owe me an apology for that, but if you still prefer to dream fanciful dreams with your little friends, then we have nothing further to say to each other right now." She glared at his books. "Read your books, Tom, and leave me to read mine."
He sneered at her one last time before storming away. For a moment Hermione thought about calling out to him, pleading for him to come back, but the urge passed in the next moment and she did not. He was the one who ought to do that. If he did not yet realize that, then she would not budge until he did.
Longbottom Cottage, Hogsmeade.
Frank and Alice Longbottom sat in the matched pair of chairs on either side of the fire that crackled in the main room of their home. Alice held a small cauldron in her lap, empty. Frank’s mother sat in another chair next to him, her visage silver-haired and stately. Around the room stood the residents of the village who owned their own farms, as well as the chosen leaders of all the trade guilds. With the exception of the witch who headed the weaver’s guild, they were all male. They shifted in place, ill at ease with what they all suspected was about to happen.
The Longbottoms rose. Frank began to speak.

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