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In Hermione’s bedroom, Tom traced spiral patterns on her flushed skin as they heaved breaths of satisfaction and relief. "I had almost forgotten what this was like," Hermione gasped.
Tom chuckled as he planted a kiss on her cheek. "So had I," he said. "I love you very much, Hermione. I had forgotten that too."
She returned the kiss. "I am glad that we both had our memories refreshed."
They stayed like that for a while, embracing in the nude, as their breaths slowed to a normal rate. At last Tom spoke.
"I did not intend to put pressure on you about the basilisk. If you don’t want it here, I am sure that you can tell Mother."
"Tom, I cannot say that I love the idea of having it here, but it’s true that it lived "under my feet’ at Hogwarts for three and a half years and did no harm in its magical sleep. At least it cannot escape that vault on its own. I do understand the need of having such a powerful weapon rather than effectively disarming oneself." She hesitated. "I’m more worried about the idea of your using it in war, though."
"I would apply a blindfold when I did not intend to use its gaze to kill enemies."
"But suppose you momentarily forgot and looked at it. I never thought I would suggest this, but... the thing that your royal ancestor did...."
"Hermione, are you suggesting what I think you are? Even after what you heard from my mother about how that turned out for her?"
"No! It’s as your mother said. I do not want you to do that. I just... don’t want to lose you. That basilisk is dangerous. Please, promise me—promise me as a wizard—that you will be careful, and use it only as a last resort. A necessity in warfare."
Tom considered for a moment, but in the end, there was no question of it. He nodded. "I promise, Hermione."
Dobby had not been given a task to complete, but neither had he been prohibited from nosing about the castle. The elf’s contact, Kreacher, had just passed on some questions for him to investigate.
"What of the forced marriage plot involving Lady Riddle and Caractacus Burke? Does Armand Malfoy drink unicorn blood? Do his eyes ever flash red, especially when he is angry?"
Unfortunately, Dobby could not give his answer to the second question. It was not because he did not know the answer, but because he had been sworn to silence. He could tell Kreacher that, though, and let the other elf—or his master—deduce what he would from it. It seemed clear enough to Dobby what such an oath would imply. He was not sure about the third one—he himself had never seen that happen, but he typically exited from his master’s presence whenever Lord Malfoy was having a fit.
As for the first question, he knew that Lord Malfoy did still intend to pursue the scheme. His wrath upon receiving Lady Riddle’s notification of her betrothal to Severus Snape had been terrible to behold. It was, in fact, one of the times that Dobby had left the room at once. He now wished that he had stayed, and found a place to hide, so that he would have been able to tell Kreacher if the lord’s eyes had flashed red during that.
The good thing—one of the only good things, in Dobby’s opinion—about being a house-elf was that he was good at making himself unobtrusive. Master’s advisor and attendant, the wicked Lord Lestrange, was in the family parlor with him. Dobby lurked in the shadows, hiding beneath a chair in the most shadowed corner of the room. The wizards had a candle on the table that stood between their chairs, but little light from it reached the corner where Dobby crouched. It was dangerous, but such was the life of a spy. Dobby was proud that he was spying for those who might help him and the other house-elves who were enslaved to Malfoy allies.
Across the room, Armand Malfoy set down the apple that he had just cut open, as well as the knife he had used, and turned to Rodolphus Lestrange in the grand parlor. Lestrange’s manner was still as dutiful as ever, but there were lines of strain in his face.
"What has happened to my heretofore useful tools?" Malfoy said abruptly.
"Whom do you mean, precisely, my lord?" Lestrange rather hoped that Malfoy did not mean him. The man’s moods truly were mercurial. Abraxas might have been a traitor, but he had been correct about that, loath as Lestrange was to admit it.
"I considered it quite a coup when the Carrows swore themselves to you," he said. "Of what use have they been, though? Carrow himself tortured the Riddle half-blood—but that cost me a large sum of gold in the thousands in taxes that Lady Riddle owed!"
Lestrange did not dare remind the high lord that agreeing to void Lady Riddle’s tax debt had been Malfoy’s own idea, and that at the time, he had considered it a brilliant one, since Caractacus Burke was supposedly going to marry Lady Riddle soon. That certainly had not happened.
"The Carrows have provided useful information," Lestrange said hesitantly.
"Not that useful! I had hoped that they would know of some kind of secret way into Castle Gaunt"—they never used the name "Parselhall"—"but if such a thing even exists, it is useless. The woman really has made the place impregnable by magic." He scowled. "And Burke has lost his enthusiasm about marrying Lady Riddle now. He knows that it would require Snape’s death, and he expressed to me recently that he no longer believes it is even possible."
"What did he mean by that? Not possible to kill Snape? What does he know about Snape’s secrets that we don’t, my lord?"
"You misunderstand me, Rodolphus. All I mean is that Burke does not think the castle can be penetrated, and that any attempt to enter it, murder Snape, and force Lady Riddle to marry Burke would merely end in the slaughter of the invasion force."
Lestrange did not want to gainsay his high lord, but he did not disagree with that assessment.
"He proposed another plan to me involving that damned locket of Slytherin that he was so proud of purchasing," Malfoy sneered. "This plan consists of placing a curse on the locket that would slowly kill its owner, but offering the object for sale to the Riddle boy—through someone else, of course, since Burke knows that Riddle would not trust him."
Lestrange considered that. "It’s a fair plan, I suppose, if the goal is to kill the half-blood. I am not sure it would work—he’s said to be an exceptional wizard and would probably detect the curse—but it might succeed if the curse were subtle enough. But I cannot see how this would help get rid of Snape. Lady Riddle told us three and a half years ago at the Wizards’ Council that she could still conceive. I expect it’s only a matter of time before she has a child with Snape." He studied his folded hands. "Any such child would be of far purer blood—not truly pureblood, since Snape himself is only half-blood, but better. And the death of Riddle would eliminate any right of the Mudblood Granger to live among our people. Under your laws about Mudbloods from last winter, they are only allowed to associate with witches and wizards if they are married to one. Perhaps it’s not the worst idea."
Malfoy slammed his fist down on the nearest table. "Rodolphus! I expected more faith from you!"
"I’m sorry, my lord," he said reflexively.
"Burke’s idea is, as you say, not bad, but it constitutes giving up—admitting defeat. And Burke does not have a plan for anything that would happen after Riddle’s death. His mother naturally would seek vengeance, and Burke has no response. I have already thought about this, Rodolphus, and I have determined that we will continue with the original plans. Even Snape’s marriage does not change them; he would have died anyway once Burke took over Castle Gaunt. This just means he has to die first."
Lestrange did not agree with this view. If the castle was impregnable, then it seemed as though Burke was right. Any attack would be repelled or the attackers picked off easily. He chose his words carefully, though. "What, my lord, do you have in mind for breaching the castle’s defenses?"
Malfoy leaned forward, smiling. "Do you remember the time I mentioned a spy who used the name "Wormtail’? He told my family about Snape’s poisoning of Morfin Gaunt, and he also informed Lucius of the planned treasonous uprising in Godric’s Hollow."
Lestrange remembered. "Do you think you know who he is? Could he help?"
"I do think I know who he is, and if I am correct, then he is already in a position that will be of infinite use to us." Malfoy’s face darkened momentarily. "The only question I would have for him is why he has not made any contact with us since assuming this position, or even told us his real name and the fact that he has such a useful post. He will have some explaining to do, if it’s who I think it is."
"Who, my lord—"
"I think it is Peter Pettigrew, who is now a sworn vassal of Lady Riddle."
Lestrange’s eyes widened in awe—and then he noticed the tiny form hiding in the shadows.
Dobby realized at once that he had been seen. He had tried his best to conceal his movements—it was dark enough that it should be hard for the wizards to notice him if he remained still—but this last bit of shocking information had been too much for him. He had twitched in surprise—and instantly knew that he had given away his position.
Malfoy saw what Lestrange had seen. In a flash, far more quickly than Lestrange would have supposed an old man could move—though, he thought, other old men did not drink a dark restorative—he was on his feet, advancing toward the elf.
"Elf," he commanded, "I order you to stay where you are. Now, what did you hear?"
Dobby stared back defiantly.
"I order you to tell me what you heard!"
Against his will, Dobby’s lips parted. "Everything, Master," he croaked.
Malfoy’s nostrils flared. "And why were you listening? I order you to tell me the truth."
A shiver darted down Dobby’s spine. He cursed that twitch. Kreacher needed to know this—he needed to know what Dobby had just heard! But now....
"Dobby was asked to," he uttered, his tongue and lips moving of their own accord, compelled by the vile magic of enslavement. He was sure he knew what was coming next—
Dobby’s eyelids fluttered closed as the words left Malfoy’s mouth, but then he realized that all was not lost. Malfoy had not—yet—ordered him to answer the question. He had only moments, though. With a snap of his fingers, he summoned the sharp blade that Malfoy had used to cut his apple. Before Malfoy could make his question a command, Dobby plunged the knife into his own heart, a defiant grin on his lips as he took the last freedom that he could.
Malfoy and Lestrange screamed in dismay as the little elf’s life bled out onto the floor. In fury, Malfoy pulled out strands of his white hair. He turned to Lestrange.
"Lucius," he snarled. "Lucius or Narcissa."
"My lord, are you sure it couldn’t be Snape?"
"How could he even meet with Snape? Malfoys are the only ones who can give orders to Malfoy elves, and they can’t leave Malfoy properties unless they are told to. Lucius or Narcissa—or both—have been using that little thing to spy on us!" He picked up his wand and stormed for the door. "I will question the rest of them immediately."
Castle Parselhall at Hangleton.
For the two couples of Parselhall, the rest of the holidays passed blissfully. Severus did not worry about the fact that he had not received any information from his "little source" in response to the questions he had sent through Regulus. The elves had to meet in the dungeons of Castle Draconis, the home of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy—the one place that both of them could visit—and such meetings were inherently risky. Then, too, it was likely that the Malfoy elf would not immediately learn the information Severus sought. He was not going to fret about it just yet. There were too many pleasant thoughts to enjoy instead.
One evening right after New Year’s Day, Severus and Merope sat in the family parlor together, side by side. They spoke little to each other, but little needed to be said aloud.
Severus’s black-eyed gaze often darted down to Merope’s lap, even though there was not yet anything for him to see. He knew that the twins were there; their magic had confirmed it, and that was all that he needed to know. His wife—he turned the word over in his mind every time he thought it, almost caressing the thought itself—was pregnant with twins, and she was taking her potions faithfully. He was still afraid to hope, but it seemed that they might just be born alive. The prospect of being a father—truly a father, with children who were definitely his and whom he could raise as a father—was incredible to him. As a formerly dispossessed half-blood, he had not expected any noble witch to ever consider him, and after he met Merope, he was unable to consider taking a commoner—or, really, anyone else—as his wife. And for now, the whole family was at peace and without conflict.
Even young Lord Thomas, Severus had to admit, was behaving tolerably, which must in large part be attributed to his reconciliation. Severus was glad of that too. He would not have said it to Merope in so many words, even though he was sure she had felt the same way herself, but her son had conducted himself atrociously toward Lady Hermione for a while. Merope’s information that the two had been intimate two years ago had retroactively made Severus’s opinion of Lord Thomas’s previous conduct even worse. Lady Hermione herself had sometimes been hard on his nerves, she was so earnest and rather inclined to show off, but that was at least understandable to Severus, who had felt as a young man that he had to prove himself too. But what could one say about a wizard who had a powerful, intelligent, kind fiancée and treated her ill? Severus was glad that Lord Thomas had gone to that cave and drunk that potion, since the result was—so far—a welcome change in his behavior.
Merope was even gladder to see the change in Tom’s behavior. In addition to being sad for Hermione’s sake at the way that Tom ignored and dismissed her, she had not liked at all some of the patterns that she had been seeing. She supposed that it was natural for any witch or wizard to have personal inclinations or interests in specific fields of magic, and she knew that Tom was very proud of his predominantly Celtic ancestry, but she had not liked seeing him carry around books full of instructions for murderous rituals. The scene in the Gaunts’ crypt had shaken him; that much was clear. He had certainly had a sunny view of Ceridwyn, her father, and her grandmother; and it was good that his thoughts about Ceridwyn herself had received a jolt, even if he likely did still have idealistic views of Mordred and Morgana—to say nothing of Slytherin, who was not quite so distant. Merope also wondered just how interested Tom actually had been in a Horcrux. He had unquestionably read about the topic in his first year at Hogwarts, which seemed appallingly young to Merope. It was for the best that she had shown him the vault, even though she had not wanted to visit it due to her own disturbing memories and concern that it would influence Tom in exactly the opposite way to what she wished. He needed to make the reformation of the remorse potion permanent, and knowing that it was up to him—that the potion itself was only a temporary catalyst—would help. Merope was also relieved, for her own sake, that she had decided at last to plan serious steps against Malfoy and Lestrange. Tom would look at the twins—if they lived—as threats for as long as Malfoy or his sympathizers ruled. That was not to say that Merope looked forward to war—no one in their right mind would—but it seemed inevitable now, and it was good that the four of them were on the same page.
That same chilly evening just after New Year’s Day, while the more sensible adults were indoors in a parlor, Hermione and Tom were huddled together on the rooftop of the family quarters wing of the castle, warming themselves with a magical fire. It was a marvelously clear night, and they were admiring the twinkling stars.
"There’s... Regulus," he said, pointing at the star, a grin appearing on his face as he uttered the name.
Hermione laughed and snuggled close to him. "Do you think that this is a sign that the wizard Regulus is going to appear soon?" she teased.
His voice was completely serious. She gazed at him in surprise. "Tom, Divination seems very questionable to me. Perhaps there are real prophecies, but to use the stars to predict specific, small events in someone’s life...."
"I only said that it could be."
"He is an ally of this family," she said in a quiet voice. "It’s a logical inference."
Tom shook his head in amusement as he hugged her closely. "This is why I am so glad that we reconciled," he said through chuckles.
She laughed with him as she welcomed the warmth of his body. "I am so glad that you decided to change your ways and return to me!"
He held her. "For some reason, I valued an incestuous, ritually-murdering, tyrannical family line more than you or my mother. It was stupid." He sighed and gazed over the ramparts. "Mother is going to have twins. I admit, I don’t like thinking about her and Snape—well—"
Hermione smiled wryly. "That is entirely understandable, Tom. I never liked thinking about my parents’ intimacies."
"Well," he said briskly, "she is, of course, but if we really can remove Malfoy and Lestrange and reverse his awful laws, then I won’t have to worry about the twins. They will grow up as Snape heirs and not get any "ideas’ in their heads. But I was thinking lately, over the past few days... my—father"—he grimaced at the word—"had a Muggle wife. She was with child as well. She has probably had that baby now. She was rather far along."
Hermione gazed at him in surprise and disapproval. "You killed him when he had a pregnant wife?"
He looked pained. "Hermione, let me explain. I do not know what, if anything, my mother told you about it."
"Very little." She met his eyes. "All right. Whatever happened, I am willing to listen."
"He really did deserve it, Hermione, and not just because he abandoned us to starve—though that in itself is reason enough. He struck my mother while wearing a suit of armor, including gauntlets over his hands. He shed her blood. I saw the memory of it in his mind. Even if that sort of thing is acceptable to Muggles, and... magical nobles who accept Muggle customs—"
Hermione was grateful that he had not said "Normans."
"—it is not acceptable in traditional magical culture in this country. He called her the vilest of names, merely because she had concealed her Gaunt heritage from him, knowing that he was afraid of the family. He referred to me as a bastard, despite the fact that they were lawfully married by the same priest who married Mother and Snape. And when I finally challenged him to a duel, he attempted to stab me in the neck while I was still bowing. Dishonorable fighting entitles me to a forfeit."
Hermione considered this. "By all the laws of honor, you are right. He did deserve it. I understand, I think. Your mother did mention this, but not in much detail."
"She may not have wanted to talk about the details. We had an argument."
Hermione nodded in understanding. "What of his wife, then?"
"It occurred to me that even though her child is a Muggle, it’s still my half-brother or half-sister. I do not know how Sir Thomas provided for them. If the child is a boy, then he inherited, and she will probably manage the manor house in the child’s name for many years. But if the child is a girl, then they may have been removed from the house if the heir—or the lord—wanted that. Muggle females inherit only if there is no other heir, as you well know."
Hermione was gazing at him in surprise, awe, and increasing affection. "What were you thinking, Tom?"
He took a deep breath. "I was thinking about asking them—well, having Mother look into it, and if the child is a girl, for her to ask them if they need a home. I don’t really know of what use a pair of Muggles would be... but perhaps there would be something for them to do in the village of Hangleton, useful to us or not. And it would be better for them to live under the rule of magical people, especially if the baby is female."
Hermione hugged him. He embraced her in return, holding her. She smiled at the contact, the warmth of his body and the closeness of his arms around her. "I am so glad that you thought of this," she said, separating from him. "But... you should realize, she might not want to live in Hangleton. She might not care for the charity of the mother of the person who made her a widow."
"That is true," he admitted, "but I think we should still make the offer."
She thought about it for a moment as another issue occurred to her. "There’s something else, Tom," she said hesitantly. "There could be issues later, if one of your mother’s twins is a boy and this child is a girl—or even if the reverse is true. Even as a villager, this child would be your half-sibling. Your mother’s twins will also be... but there will be no blood relation between this Muggle child and your mother’s twins. Unless they are all of the same sex, this Muggle child could someday wed one of the twins. That would be a blatant challenge to you."
Tom was impressed by her canny. That had truly not occurred to him. There had been times when he had thought that Slytherin was a very bad fit for earnest, idealistic Hermione... but now, he remembered that she had been raised a nobleman’s daughter. He thought about what she had said before replying.
"It might be," he acknowledged, "but Mother and Snape could prevent such a marriage... and the twins will be raised noble. The Muggle Riddle child might not even come in contact with them. And even if that does happen, and they decide not to keep them from marrying, my rights are still paramount. To be honest, Hermione," he said, "in terms of a challenge to me—to us—it might be better for neither of the twins to marry above themselves. I would be more concerned about a marriage between one of the twins and, say, one of our allied families."
Hermione thought about this before deciding that he made a good point. "That is very true," she said. "Fortunately for us, your mother will have to approve any noble marriage that either of them would choose to make. I am sure she has thought of some of these things herself."
"Probably not the Muggle Riddle child. I don’t remember if I even told her that his wife was pregnant. But the other possibility... yes, either she has already, or she will."
"I don’t actually think Snape wants to hurt you, either," Hermione said. "He has never struck me as being very interested in amassing property."
Tom considered that. His natural inclination was to be suspicious of people, but as he considered Snape’s actions over the years, he found himself agreeing with her.
It was getting cold, so they extinguished their magical fire after that. As they descended from the rooftop, Hermione reflected on how nice it was to talk and scheme freely with him. They shared more now than they had before, she thought. He had kept many of his own plans and doings from her, either out of some misguided idea of "protecting" her or, she supposed, because he had not entirely trusted her. He had certainly desired her in those earlier days, and she did believe he had loved her, but he had not treated her as a partner in many ways. Now, he did. Despite her prior resolution to ask Lady Merope to end the betrothal and then to swear herself to the service of the family, that was not actually Hermione’s first choice for how she wanted her life to go. She had wanted to know love again, to be cherished by the wizard she still loved—had never ceased to love—but after the incident with the basilisk, she had been convinced that Tom cared little about her and that the continued close association with him would eventually cost her her life.
Hermione Granger, studious pupil to some and overbearing show-off to others, was never so glad to be wrong about something.
Once inside the castle, Tom and Hermione hurried down the corridor, their footfalls muted as they darted for Hermione’s bedchamber. They could Apparate, but it would make a loud sound. Hermione drew her breath in sharply as a long shadow appeared at the end of the corridor, near the landing of the stairs. A yellowish glow accompanied it. She gazed ahead; her bedroom was still at the very end of the hall.
Snape and Merope reached the top of the stairs and gazed upon Tom and Hermione, who were notably past Tom’s door and obviously closer to Hermione’s. Snape’s lips thinned, but Merope shook her head at him almost imperceptibly.
"Good night to the both of you," she said with a nod to the young pair.
They entered their chamber, leaving Tom and Hermione in the hall by themselves. Tom’s eyes were wide as he continued to stare at the spot where they had been.
"All right, Tom," Hermione muttered, pulling at his arm. "I told you, she knows."
He gazed at his own bedroom door for a moment, during which time Hermione’s face fell. Then he thought better of it, turned back to her, and continued to the end of the corridor with her.
For both couples, the next morning was another one of winter sunshine and draftiness mitigated by shared body heat and post-conjugal closeness. Hermione almost did not want to get out of bed, but she had no choice. Untangling herself from him, she stretched and slung her legs over the side of the bed.
He groaned at the loss of warmth but reluctantly followed her. Rubbing his eyes, he grimaced. "Mother and Snape saw us last night."

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