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Dataset card Data Studio Files
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"Friends, leaders of the village, my countrymen.... We have called you to our residence to take a vote on a matter of the greatest importance. The rumors you have heard are true: The village, our village, has negotiated a potential allegiance to the High Master of Hogwarts."
The villagers eyed each other speculatively.
"The terms of the allegiance are standard. Since the village already trades with Hogwarts and sells food to the school, nothing will change except that we will have to seek approval of the High Master before trading outside, and we will be obliged to provide a token each year in gold or in kind. A very small amount," he assured them. "Merely a formality to secure the magical contract. We will continue to receive our share of the crops that the school itself owns. We will also have the formal, irrevocable protection of the Masters, and any magical wards that they place over the school may also be imposed on the village.
"This allegiance will not be official unless "yeas’ carry the vote. I must warn you," Frank said, "there are those in high places in this country who will not look fondly upon this move. You may have suspected this already—yes, I see that some of you have. Know that however his high lordship and the rest of the Wizards’ Council would regard this oath, it is lawful and unexceptional for a free town to choose to swear to a lord, and the Master of Hogwarts is a lord, by the Codex of Wizarding Law."
A farmholder spoke up. "What if Lord Malfoy strips Dumbledore of that title? I hear he can do that now if he wants to, and no one even on the Council can say him nay."
"You are correct. If that happens, then we will have to choose whether to accept it or rebel," Frank said grimly. Several people in the group shared uncomfortable looks with each other. "But we do not think that this will happen. Even though Lord Malfoy can do such a thing, there are three other members of the Wizards’ Council who we do not believe will be inclined to risk magical uprisings around the country. They are all related to Malfoy by blood or marriage, too, so they will be able to influence him.
"To avoid pressure, the vote will be private," Frank explained. "You were all given slips of parchment upon entering. Write your choice, "yea’ or "nay,’ as to whether the village shall swear fealty to the High Master of Hogwarts, then place your ballot in this cauldron." He gestured to the cauldron that his wife still held. "I will tally the votes before all of you and show the slips of parchment to everyone."
The farmholders and tradesmen took out quills of varying degrees of quality and began to scratch their votes. One by one, they either manually dropped the pieces into the cauldron or directed them there by magic. At last the final person had voted. Frank Longbottom reached into the cauldron and began to tally the votes one by one.
"Yea," he said, holding up the slip of paper so that everyone could see it. Alice flicked her wand, creating a shimmering number in the air to represent the total for each side.
This continued throughout the counting until finally the last ballot was tallied. The vote was closer than the Longbottoms had expected—perhaps the ominous speech about the possible consequences had frightened some of them—but in the end, the yeas carried the vote.
"So be it," he said. "As the mayor and representative of Hogsmeade, I will take the oath before his lordship High Master Dumbledore."
After the guests had dispersed, Frank turned to his wife and mother with a sad look on his face. "I feel that I have lied to them."
"You have not lied," Alice said gently. "With luck, it will not come to blows between wizards. Our English allies, the "robins,’ are busy, after all."
"The Malfoys will not surrender power quietly, and there is always the possibility that...." He hesitated. "That "the robins won’t bring back any food.’ And if they do, the concessions are going to be unpleasant, I’m afraid."
She held herself resolutely and shared a glance with the elder Augusta Longbottom. "Your mother and I are prepared to make them."
He sighed again.
"It’s done," Neville announced in his quiet way at the next meeting of the Friends of the Founders. "The village voted yea, and my father is going to swear to Dumbledore privately this weekend. After that they will proclaim it. And then...." He trailed off uneasily.
"And then we will all see what Armand Malfoy does," Hermione said quietly.
The young people nodded solemnly.
Hermione’s conscience pricked at her. I should tell Tom about this before it happens, she thought. Even though he will find out, just like everyone else, I should tell him in advance so that he can prepare for it.
That evening, she steeled herself to address him in the Slytherin common room, sadly reflecting on the fact that they were so far apart now that she was not even comfortable talking to him. Perhaps this will be the beginning of a reconciliation, she thought optimistically as she approached him. He was by himself, for one, reading a book instead of conspiring in whispers with his friends. As she walked up, he lifted his gaze from the book—Hermione could see it was Pyromancy—and cast her a hostile glare.
"You need not look at me that way," she snapped, instantly regretting such a poor start to the conversation. She tried to continue in a more neutral tone, lowering her voice as well so that no one else could hear. "I heard this evening that Mayor Longbottom of Hogsmeade conducted a vote about whether to swear fealty to Dumbledore, and it passed."
Tom closed the book and rose from his seat. "Excuse me," he said, reaching for her arm. She jerked away, but he took her wrist anyway. "This discussion should occur somewhere else." He released her wrist and offered her his arm. Hesitantly she took it. He escorted her out of the common room and into a dark, stuffy part of the underground corridor. The stone floor was damp, and there was almost no light except what came from other connecting corridors.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded as he lit the tip of his wand.
"So you have decided to join Potter and Longbottom’s group," he said.
"You know that I went to the meetings!" she exclaimed. "You asked me to continue attending, when we were still on good terms. What is your problem?"
"Perhaps I don’t want my betrothed swanning about the school with other wizards."
She glared furiously at him. "I walk to meetings with Luna Lovegood or Ginevra Weasley, and don’t "swan about’ with any boy, but perhaps you should start to treat me like your betrothed again if this offends you so much!"
He continued to glare. "I also regard it as switching sides. Frankly, that’s far more important," he added cuttingly.
She ignored his barb with her response, though it still hurt. "They are not your enemies. They’re not the Malfoys. They are opposed to the Wizards’ Council too."
"This provocation—this Hogsmeade vote—could interfere with my plans. You mentioned it before, but I did not realize they intended to do it so soon. I am not ready for things to start moving yet. I haven’t found the Chamber—"
"Curse your Chamber!"
He continued as if she had not interrupted. "—and I don’t yet have my friends’ families in alliance with my mother. If the Longbottoms provoke the Wizards’ Council into an act of war, it will be between the two of them. I won’t stand a chance to offer another option to my people."
Hermione gaped at him. "That is what worries you?"
"It is a fair reading, I think. I hope that the Council doesn’t do anything. At least it’s the school," he said, trying to inject hope into his words. "Their children attend this school too. It’s almost as impregnable as my mother’s castle. But...." He trailed off.
Hermione was thinking of something else. "You said "my people.’ Why not "our’?"
He gazed evenly at her. "Are they your people, Hermione?"
"What do you mean?"
"I think you know exactly what I mean."
Outraged and furious, she surged forward. "No, I am afraid I don’t, Tom. Are you saying that "your people’ don’t include part-Normans, or that they don’t include Muggle-borns?"
"I’m asking if you count yourself as part of "my people.’ You must know what I mean when I say that." He was smirking.
"That’s it, Tom," she declared. "I am not playing games with you. If you want to know my thoughts about something, you can ask me in a civilized manner, but I will not have this. I wanted to warn you about the Hogsmeade vote so that you could adapt, but clearly, I should not have bothered. Good night."
She turned on her heels and stormed back to the common room, leaving him standing in the damp hallway. He could not see the tears in her eyes.
Castle Parselhall, Hangleton.
Severus Snape entered his lady’s private study, where she stood by the window, staring grimly at the forest outside the castle. She turned as he came into the room and forced a weak smile on her face.
"My lady, what troubles you?" he asked baldly.
She sighed. "My son’s letters to me are cold and perfunctory. I am afraid that he and Lady Hermione are having difficulties. He has hardly mentioned her. I hope she isn’t—"
Severus’s black eyes widened as he completed the sentence in his mind. "You have reason to think there is a chance she might be?"
"Oh, yes," she said, smiling grimly. "But she knows how to make the potion. I asked her... and it’s also possible that they have quarreled, and that’s why my son’s letters are so chilly. In any case," she collected herself, "you came here to bring news." The weak smile transformed into an encouraging one as she sat down behind her desk. "You may sit as well."
He took a seat and began to speak. "I do have news," he said slowly. "Hogsmeade’s new mayor, Frank Longbottom, held a vote with the important people in the town. They decided to swear to Dumbledore—well, actually to the head of Hogwarts, who remains a lord or lady in the law."
Merope nodded. "It hardly changes anything, practically speaking, but the meaning of it is clear."
"Yes, and it has not been lost on the Wizards’ Council families. The little sources reported that apparently all three of the younger members had to magically restrain Lord Malfoy. He apparently became apoplectic when he heard about it, and wanted to replace Dumbledore—accusing him of treason, I believe—but they rightly persuaded him that nothing in this matter was treasonous, and that the Council did not want to make war on Hogwarts if it could be avoided—especially with the allegiance of Hogsmeade to the castle. The school could easily withstand a siege, between the crop fields and the magical wards, which it can now lawfully place around the town as well."
Merope picked up a smooth round stone with a snake carved into its surface and began to caress it as a worry-stone. "I wonder if the other members of the Council will one day have to... remove Lord Malfoy." Although the door was closed and no one was present but the two of them, she still said it in a whisper.
Severus looked concerned. "This country is no stranger to parricide among the nobles, to be sure. I wonder, though, if we would really be better off if that did happen. Although the others are more "moderate,’ they are also smarter and have all their wits yet."
"They can do oppressive things and it will not seem as bad," she agreed. "And on that topic, what of the plot involving Caractacus Burke? Have you heard anything about that?"
Severus scowled blackly. "Unfortunately, my lady, I have, and none of it is good." He took a deep breath. "Malfoy’s law is official, of course: For future noble marriages, the wizard husband of a witch is the administrator and lord of the castle, though inheritance remains in her family line. This was almost certainly meant to persuade Burke, and it seems that it did. He consented, and Lord Black gave his permission."
Merope sighed and rubbed her eyes. "It will not happen, Severus."
"Of course, my lady. I would not expect it to," he agreed pointedly. He cleared his throat and continued. "The little source also thinks that they attempted to kill your former husband, Sir Thomas."
She looked up at him, alarmed. "Attempted? They did not succeed, I hope?"
"They did not. Your ward was infallible. The source saw them leaving the castle as a group—Burke himself had gone along—and then returning full of complaints."
Merope managed a smile. "At least there is that."
"Yes. But this does not mean that they won’t stop trying."
"I suppose we are all waiting to see what will happen next."
The night of April 30, 1145.
Tom put on his dark green robes, the ones with Celtic designs decorating the sleeves and hems. He attached the medallion that secretly bore the Triquetra, visible only when he or one of his allies—which still included Hermione, he thought—touched it. It was appropriate for this event. The state of mind of a witch or wizard participating in this ritual was crucial, and these little details all had a power to influence that.
Tom was still deciding what endeavor to charm. His conscience told him one thing, and his rational mind another. It has been months since I even spoke civilly to Hermione, let alone shared affections with her, he thought with some discomfort. That latter had been more of a challenge than he had expected, especially after a dream clearly inspired by his suppressed desire for her. And yet, and yet—he did not particularly want to touch her as long as she was acting so unreasonable. If he did, it would be a surrender. He truly did not think he was in the wrong, and in fact, that rational part of his mind even told him that their separation this spring had been good, because it meant that his friends ignored her entirely instead of snickering at her and thereby creating pressure for him to join in.
She is aligning herself with Potter and Longbottom, he thought with irritation, and Morgana only knows what they are really up to—or their parents, at any rate. The boys themselves probably have no idea what their families are actually involved in. But neither do I.
Use the ritual to charm his relationship with Hermione—or to charm his political ambitions? Tom missed her, but he was also annoyed with her, and as he thought more about it, it seemed foolish to choose the heart over the mind. If the political winds shifted—if he started to develop real power—then she would return to him of her own accord, which was how he wanted it. He did not know what the "Friends of the Founders" or their families were planning, but it certainly did not have anything to do with replacing that Muggle pretender-king Stephen, or his female cousin, with the line of Gaunt. The seed of ambition had germinated, and Tom was not going to move it to withered soil now.
Tom took out the piece of parchment that he was going to use for the ritual and inscribed on it his ambitions to claim the heritage of Slytherin and the birthright of Mordred. Ogham, he thought, making sure to use the ancient system of writing, and to write the sentence in Gaelic. That mattered too, he was certain. The wishes of his classmates, written in the Latin alphabet in the Norman-bastardized English that they spoke, surely would not resonate with the Beltane fire as well as this did. He smiled in satisfaction, rolled up the parchment, and left the Slytherin common room just before midnight to meet the other participants in the forest.
Slughorn, Dumbledore, McGonagall, and several of the other masters stood aside as their pupils approached. They were all dressed in various hues of green, of which Tom approved. He moved as close as he could to the professors, giving them eager smiles that achieved precisely the end he was hoping for. Slughorn in particular beamed fondly at him and even had the temerity to offer him a wink.
The fat romantic blowhard must think I am going to charm my engagement to Hermione, he thought contemptuously. Poor Slughorn. I have much grander plans than that. As Tom glanced at the other young witches and wizards who were standing, talking in low voices to each other, waiting for the ritual to begin, he felt a surge of contempt for them and whatever cheap, common dreams they were hoping to make happen. They were probably going to ask for gold—or for a particular romantic attachment, as Slughorn apparently hoped for him. Magic itself would disapprove of being used for such purposes, he thought.
Dumbledore raised his wand high and sent a shower of gold sparks into the air. The murmur of voices quieted, and everyone looked to him. "My friends... it is now midnight. We are gathered here tonight to light the ancient fire of Beltane and to charm our chosen endeavors, for this season, with growth and fruitfulness, as is the power of this date. If you have not yet written your endeavor on your parchment, please do so at this time."
All of the pupils took out their parchments from waist purses, from folds inside their sleeves, or—like Tom—merely held them out, having already held them in hand.
"Good, then," Dumbledore continued. "In that case, we will begin by lighting the magical fire. You all know this spell by now. It is customary that a witch begin the chant, and I am honored to let Professor McGonagall do so." He raised his wand, and the other professors—and then the pupils—followed. Dumbledore turned to McGonagall with a nod.
The Scottish witch began to utter an incantation in Gaelic. Tom knew it was going to happen, but still, actually hearing the perfect utterance of that tongue sent a thrill through his body. He remembered his mother doing so at Yule, and then forced his thoughts to remain in the present. That was important.
Green and gold sparks issued forth from McGonagall’s wand, sprinkling the ground. She turned to the other professors, her spell never stopping. They joined the chant. The shower of sparks grew.
In a moment, Slughorn—who was next to Tom—turned to him and gave him a nod. This was the cue. Tom began to speak, the ancient words sounding perfect to him, right and proper and powerful. Sparks flew from his wand—and then one that was more than a spark. It was the faintest flicker of fire, but it caught the pile of kindling that the professors had laid out in a ritual circle. Tom beamed proudly. That was a good sign, surely. Slughorn seemed to agree; he smiled happily at Tom as the flames caught.
It was only the beginning. After that first flame, a perfect gold-and-orange one that burned green at its heart, it seemed easier for everyone else to cast the magical fire. In a minute, the circle was burning merrily, an inferno of gold, orange, and green. Magical sparks flew into the sky. The chanting ceased.
Tom raised his wand again and drew a sign in the air in green flame, the pentagram. "Magic," he murmured in the old tongue. He drew a circle surrounding it. "The eternal cycle." He counted in the ancient tongue, naming the months, beginning not with January, but with the start of the new year as the ancients had reckoned it. With each month, he cast a separate symbol into the sky, outlined in thin green flame.
His part over, Tom stepped back. Another student stepped forward, cast a charm over the fire, and studied it intently. The flames roared, but the amount of heat did not change. The pupil, a Ravenclaw, cast a second spell. The fire subsided to its former state. "It is receptive," the wizard said.
"The magic is ready," McGonagall announced. "Young scholars, come forward and offer your sacrifice to the flames."
They had been instructed to bring a sacrifice to offer the fire, and they were forbidden to bring animals, living or dead. It also had to be a true sacrifice, which required more thought for witches and wizards. It had to be something they could not create out of thin air with magic. Since wizards and witches apparently could not create edible food directly with magic—it had been tried, and no one had ever succeeded—that was the easiest, most obvious solution. The professors had advised them to bring fruit, meat, or spices, preferably that they had gathered or purchased themselves from Hogsmeade. Food taken from the Hogwarts dining table would not be much of a personal sacrifice. Tom withdrew an apple from his belt pouch, perfect and unblemished. He cast it into the fire along with the rest of the classmates. The fire developed a sickly sweet smell, and a plume of smoke escaped into the sky.
"Now, one by one, cast your parchments into the blaze. Be sure to focus on your wishes intently, to the exclusion of all else if you can. Professor Trelawney"—Tom glanced at the Divination mistress, surprised that he had not recognized her until now—"will interpret the fire for you."
Trelawney normally had an untrustworthy, grubby appearance, and her skills in the classroom did not inspire confidence either. However, tonight she had taken the trouble to look the part, and she did not seem batty at all right now. Perhaps her act for the lecture room was to compensate for the fact that the conditions for true Divination were poor. That was not the case at the moment.
Tom was first. Focusing intently on his ambition to benevolently rule witches and wizards, to restore the rightful line to the throne, to claim his birthright—all of his birthrights—he dropped his parchment into the magical flames. The fire accepted it, crackling in a flurry of green sparks as it consumed it. The flame surged, taking strange shapes. Tom studied them as well as they could, though they were ephemeral. That long tongue of fire—was that a serpent? And that surge of green color that rose through the gold flames, reaching the crest, then vanishing into the air—the fire was a circle—was that a crown?
"Magic favors your wish," Trelawney intoned. Tom smirked broadly.
The flames suddenly escaped the circle, getting very close to Tom’s robes. Trelawney’s already large eyes widened in alarm. "Great danger lies ahead."
That did not require much interpretation, Tom thought—but as far as he was concerned, that was an additional sign that his goals would bear fruit.
After its momentary surge, the fire seemed to draw back to its original circle. The flames immediately before Tom flickered oddly. For the first time that evening, red appeared in the fire, but only in front of him. It was the purest red, as red as the apple he had tossed into the flames, not a hint of orange—a color not usually seen in fire, he thought.
It was only a moment, and after it had passed, Tom wondered if he had really seen it. He frowned. Trelawney had not noticed that. She was gazing up at the flurry of sparks and smoke and declaring that she kept seeing serpents and ravens. That made sense to Tom, validating what he wanted to be true, and he paid little attention to it. Slughorn beamed and gave Tom a wink, apparently convinced that this meant that he and Hermione would have a large family.
Trelawney’s voice subsided. For another moment, a single, small tongue of flame in front of Tom flickered blood-red again, its hot heart lethal green. There was no doubt this time. Tom stared at the green core of the flame, and for a moment it seemed that a face stared back at him, a face drawn and anguished, the eyes dark, deadly, and filled with a nameless rage. Whose face is that? Tom thought—but in the next moment, it dissolved into the green heart of the fire.
His part in the ritual over, Tom stepped back to think about what he had just seen and done as his schoolmates cast their own scrolls into the blaze. Trelawney continued her interpretations, but there was nothing quite as showy after that.
It will happen, he thought, studing the flames. Magic wants it to happen. I always knew that it would have risks. I will meet them, and I will triumph.
Castle Parselhall, Hangleton.
Hermione closed her book and rubbed her forehead as she stared out the windows of the Riddle library. It was the day after she and Tom had left Hogwarts for the summer, and he was continuing to ignore her. There was no particular problem with that, she thought bitterly, if the apparent alternative was for him to treat her badly, but this was going to be a long summer without his company—unless she found something else to fill her time.
She had never questioned the custom of noble children being fostered at the homes of other nobles, especially not in the situation where it was not rivals essentially keeping hostages, but instead a young person spending time with their future spouse. It had seemed perfectly natural and sensible to her, and in previous summers, she had enjoyed every moment she could have with Tom. But now, it was different.
In one sense, it was good that she did not have to worry anymore about sneakily making that potion to prevent pregnancy. The risk with that had always been that someone would notice certain ingredients missing, ingredients that had little use other than that potion, or that she would actually be caught brewing the potion itself and would have to explain herself to an adult. Tom had it much easier, she thought sourly. But at the same time, the reason that she no longer needed to do this was an unpleasant one.
How long will this continue? Hermione thought, continuing to stare out the window at nothing specific. I would not have believed he would stay away from me even as long as he has, let alone longer—and it sure looks as if it will be longer. Next year will be my third year at Hogwarts. What if we never make amends? What if this is how my life will be, living in this castle and ignored by my own husband because he doesn’t care for me? That thought was deeply depressing to her.
One thing at a time, Hermione, she chastised herself. There is plenty of time to make amends with him. It will be at least two years before the wedding and possibly three. A lot can happen between now and then. What matters for now is finding something to do this summer.
She considered visiting her own friends, then rejected that notion. Lady Merope absolutely would not send her to a villager’s cottage. Besides, even without the complication of social class, the only friend who was even a possibility was Luna. It was impossible that she could visit Harry or Neville, who had no female relatives that she could justifiably say she was visiting, and Ginevra Weasley apparently lived in a small cottage with a houseful of wizards. That was also a situation that would be deemed inappropriate for Hermione.