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mickume

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Tom had nodded, pleased.

The budding friendship between them grew; the passage of time whittled away the calendar year. Winter was coming, and before they knew it, it was time for the students to be dismissed to observe Yule and Christmas with their families.

Although she was fostered at Parselhall, Hermione would spend the holidays with her own family. She would join them after Christmas, just in time for Tom’s birthday. He looked forward to her coming. When his mother’s house-elf showed up at Hogsmeade to bring him home, and she was not going with him, he felt an odd pang. Even though it would only be a few days, he would... miss her. I have gotten used to her being here, he began to think, but instantly interrupted his own thought with another. No. I enjoy her company.

She gave him a parting glance that was full of anticipation and smiled knowingly at him. Evidently it was on her mind too. His mother’s other house-elf appeared next to Hermione; it would take her home, since that was much more convenient for her family than to have to send some sort of Muggle carriage or wagon for her. Tom frowned in dissatisfaction; it would not have been a problem for Hermione to visit his castle—well, his mother’s castle—first, would it? They could have had a feast, and she could have gone home to her parents at any time. Why hadn’t they planned it that way?

The elf was reaching for Tom’s hand, eagerly and somewhat desperately trying to fulfill the commands of its mistress. Tom sighed and allowed the elf to Disapparate with him. They appeared on the steps of the main entrance and were instantly granted admission.

Tom blinked as he looked around. It was his home, of course, but it was different. His mother had decked the castle—well, probably ordered it decked—with garlands, wreaths, and magically-lit candles. In the grand hall, the great hearth was ready for a Yule log to be placed. The holiday was tomorrow. A light dusting of snow coated the ground, visible through the diamond-paned windows. Blades of dead grass, fallen leaves, and the occasional twig popped through it. A delicious scent filled the indoor air.

Merope had been sitting in the throne-like chair at the center of the great hall, awaiting his return. She rose, rich brown robes streaming behind her as she greeted him. The elf bowed low to her and scurried away with his possessions to store them in his room.

Tom observed that his mother was wearing the regnant’s emerald tiara again, which she did only on special occasions. "Mother," he said in acknowledgment as she approached. He wondered what was going on. Maybe she had a feast planned to celebrate his return. That would be nice.

"Welcome home," she said warmly. She looked him head to toe and smiled. "You look very well, Tom."

"Thank you, Mother," he said briskly. His gaze flitted to the top of her head and then back to her face. "You do as well—and I have to ask, what is the occasion?"

Merope smiled. "You’ll see," she said.

Tom was not having any of that. "Is there a feast planned tonight, Mother?"

She merely looked at him. "Yes, that is part of it. You should rest, Tom. The elf will bring you a bowl of wassail if you would like."

"Oh, is that what smells so good?" Tom inhaled the air deeply. "It is. Well," he said, grinning, "I do intend to keep questioning you... but I can’t turn this down." He looked around. "That elf must still be in my bedchamber. I’ll be in the library."

"The library?" she said. "You just came from school."

"Reading is how I rest."

Merope shook her head in affectionate amusement, biting her lip to avoid smiling too broadly. "Well, that is definitely you, Tom."

He wondered for a moment if his mother would come with him, but she turned and headed toward her study. The joys of administration, he thought grimly as he walked toward the vast library of the castle.

Tom closed the tall doors behind him once inside. They were heavy and did not open instantly, so he would have ample warning of an approaching visitor. His mother could Apparate from room to room inside her own castle, but she did not usually do it unless she had to go somewhere that was on the other side and a much higher or lower level. That was not the case for her study.

He summoned the house-elf that was, presumably, either attending to some general chore in the castle or setting out his possessions perfectly. The elf appeared before him with a pop.

"My mother tells me that there is wassail freshly made," he said.

"Yes, Lord Master Thomas, there is," the elf said eagerly, glad to be of help. "Would master like some?"

"I would. A large bowl, if you please."

The elf disappeared, coming back in a moment with the steaming hot drink. It left clouds of white vapor in the chilly air of the castle. Even with magical fires, it was difficult to keep a castle this large warm anywhere except close to flames. Tom sipped the bowl and smiled in pleasure. It really was good.

With the elf gone, Tom was all alone in the library, just as he wanted. He carried the hot bowl to the corner of the library where the family history books were and set it down on a reading table. He gazed at the bookcase that held the books he wanted. The good ones were almost out of his reach... but he was a wizard.

Tom drew his wand and summoned several titles. Serpent-Tongue: The Life and Mysteries of Salazar Slytherin, A Comprehensive History of House Gaunt, The Lords of the Fens, The Dispossessed Children of the Wizard-King, The Faithless Advisor, and The Book of Morgana. He smirked broadly as the entire lot of them shifted off the shelves and toward his outstretched hands.

Searing, screaming pain shot through Tom’s hands when the books reached him. He yelped and dropped them in a pile on the library floor. Mother! he thought in fury. What kind of a hex was that? This was completely unnecessary!

Once the pain in his hands subsided, Tom considered the books further. Perhaps not all of them bore curses. He had only touched the one on the bottom of the pile, the one about Slytherin. As disappointing as it was that he apparently would not be able to touch it—it was where he expected he would learn about Slytherin’s Chamber, if it existed—it was possible that he could handle the other books. He pointed his wand at each of them in turn, testing them for spells—as he realized in irritation that he should have done at the beginning. He also attempted to open the covers by magic. To his dismay, the only book that was not cursed with some sort of stinging or burning spell, or sealed against him entirely, was The Faithless Advisor.

Sighing, Tom sent the rest of the books back to their shelf and picked up the one that his mother had deemed fit for him to read. He was exasperated. He was almost fourteen years old; when would he be allowed to read about his own family history? He scowled to himself as he sat down in the nearest chair.

Something occurred to him. He looked around the area of the library he was in, then remembered his wand and summoned a sheet of paper and an inked quill. Angrily, defiantly, he wrote down the names of the books that his mother had blocked from him. Perhaps the library at Hogwarts would have some of them. If he couldn’t read them here, then he would try to find them somewhere else. Then he picked up The Faithless Advisor and opened its front cover grudgingly. Of all the books that he had wanted to look at right now, this was the one that was least interesting to him. Which is probably why Mother didn’t hex it, he thought mutinously. Still, it was something. He began to read.

The purported author was Dunwen Mac Gant, a seventh-century witch who seemed to have been something of a scholar. That must have been unusual for women in that era, even more so than now, Tom thought. The book itself could not have been more than about a hundred years old, though. He wondered who had translated the original manuscript and how accurate it was. The book was a history of Merlin, advisor to King Arthur, but it was written from a highly unflattering viewpoint. Tom rather hoped that it did indeed reflect the original, even removed as that would have been from the events in question by a century.

As he read the book, he realized with shock that the author was apparently one of his own ancestors. The family spelled its name differently and had not dropped the "Mac" at that date. That made Tom feel much better. The family would not have kept a transcription that misrepresented the work of one of its own. He read on, and as he did, he realized something.

Even though Mother did not ban this book to me, the material is shocking anyway, he thought, his dark eyes wide as he read over a particular passage. I knew some of this, vaguely, but the details are even more appalling than I thought.

According to the book, Merlin was the ultimate villain behind the fall of Arthur and Mordred, as well as the dispossession of Mordred’s secret descendants. The wizard had enabled Uther Pendragon, an arrogant, vulgar, entitled Muggle warlord, to rape Lady Igraine, a secret witch. That was the original sin, as it were. Arthur—the offspring of that unlawful attack—was a hapless non-magical buffoon, according to Lady Dunwen’s narrative, led around by his advisor, but he was not the true source of the evil that later ensued. As a younger man, he had distanced himself from his father’s conduct. He had attempted to build bridges with the other children of Igraine and join the two lines. Igraine’s daughter Morgana had thought this an excellent idea.

Tom’s stomach twisted at that little revelation—if revelation it really were. He had always thought that Arthur and Morgana had not known they were half-siblings. If Lady Dunwen’s history was correct, and they had... Tom did not know quite what to think. He wanted to revolt against the idea that his ancestors had knowingly committed incest, but if it had been unintentional, then why would someone fabricate a lie that made them look worse? Let alone someone who was a descendant.... No, Tom thought somewhat reluctantly, it must be true. That was six hundred years ago, though, and we know better now. People must have thought differently then. He continued reading, though with great trepidation for what else he might learn.

That was the worst, though. The rest simply angered him, but it was nothing new. Merlin had poisoned Arthur’s mind over time, Lady Dunwen asserted. He had persuaded Arthur to cut off his son Mordred and attempt—to no avail—to have children with the Muggle Lady Guinevere, because it was less likely that any such children would have magic, and Merlin did not think that witches and wizards should rule. He then played Arthur against his own kin, leading to the death of everyone in the direct royal line except the secret daughter of Mordred, who fled the week before the Battle of Camlann.

Tom finished the last of his wassail, which was now room temperature, and closed the book. His heart was pounding in indignation. A faithless advisor, indeed! he thought with contempt, as he put the book back on its shelf. Imagine what we would have been if not for that villain! All witches and wizards, not just the Gaunt family. And yet, so many of us revere him, because they believe the lies that came later that vilified Morgana and her son.

He gazed greedily at the other books, the ones that were barred to him. If his mother had let him read this, he could only imagine what juicy secrets might be in the others....

He would have to wait, but someday, he would learn everything that those books had to tell him. He vowed that to himself.

Tom prepared himself for the feast that evening, taking a bath and donning a nice robe in dark evergreen. He and his mother had observed Yule in their little London house, but it had naturally been a small celebration. He wondered what his mother would do for this occasion. The hearth in the great hall should have a large log. He hoped that someone had procured one. He wondered what his uncle’s old customs for the holiday had been.

When he descended the great stone staircase, the first thing he noticed was that his mother was holding not a wand, but a gnarled staff of wood topped with a pale green stone. Whose had that been? Obviously she had found it somewhere in the castle, because staves were obsolete. Did she mean to light the Yule log with it? He then noticed that Snape was standing next to his mother, dressed head to toe in black. The wizard moved to allow Tom to occupy the place of honor. The villagers and field workers had gathered, many of them looking extremely anxious.

Merope smiled at him briefly before making a quick motion toward the back of the room. The doors opened slowly, revealing a house-elf standing next to Hermione in the entrance to the castle. Tom broke into a smile. This was the surprise that his mother had planned. And a good one it is, he thought as his mother introduced her and she made her way forward to stand next to him.

He smirked at her briefly, enjoying her impressed but somewhat bewildered look. She had never seen a Yule celebration before. Whether all Muggle lords had stopped observing it, or just the ones who had adopted Norman customs, Tom did not know, though he had a suspicion it was the latter. She was in for a treat, anyway.

"My kin, my friends, my loyal subjects," Merope began, the tiara of House Gaunt shining atop her head in the candlelight, "I have summoned you here to mark the lighting of the great Yule log, which we burn to keep light and heat for our bodies and souls as we observe the coming of winter." She gazed out at the nervous faces. "I understand that my late lord brother observed this day in a different way. Know that those times are, and will henceforth remain, in the past. We do not torment loyal people, but respectfully burn the bounty of the forest, to mark this day. It is an English tradition that we light this year’s log with the last piece of the previous year’s, and to that end, when I assumed this mantle, I brought the piece that my lord son and I burned last year. I shall cast the flames with a staff of my ancestors. Lord Severus, if you will."

Snape whisked something out of his robes: a small piece of charred wood. Tom’s eyes widened in awareness; this was the remnant of the Yule log that he and his mother had burned in their little house in London last year. Merope directed the staff she was holding at it and uttered a spell—not in Latin or Greek, the languages that Tom was most familiar with for spellcasting, but in beautiful mellifluous Gaelic. Tom had never heard any spell in that language—the language of my magical ancestors, he thought with a bit of indignation—and it touched something deep in him to hear it spoken. The power was almost tangible.

The piece of wood caught fire with a rich orange flame. Merope carried it ceremoniously toward the hearth and placed it upon the large log that now occupied the space. The magical flame caught at once. Merope turned around and faced her subjects, holding the staff, the pale green stone in the staff and the tiara atop her head gleaming with the light of the flames. It caught Tom’s imagination. In that moment she looked very much like his image of an ancient witch, and he imagined how he might look doing the honors. His gaze shifted to Hermione, whose unruly hair was tinted golden with the firelight. He smiled. She would stand next to him, no doubt, and look the part just as well.

At the proper time, they dismissed to the dining hall, where a feast was awaiting them. As they ate, Hermione whispered to Tom, "That was unlike anything I have seen outside of Hogwarts. Magical customs are so interesting!"

"I’m not sure if this is a magical custom so much as a traditional custom."

"Well, your mother obviously added some magical elements to it."

"Yes. Of course... it is the tradition of this country that magic used to play a greater role for everyone, even people without magic, than it does." He remembered the alternative history of Merlin and Arthur that he had read that afternoon, and the outrage surfaced once more. "I hope it goes back to that. I am afraid that the opposite is going to happen, though. The Malfoys seem very content to let anti-magical customs take hold among the Muggles as long as they get to keep their power over witches and wizards."

Hermione looked uncomfortable at that subject. "Your mother was impressive," she said. "She looked so... magical... and I wonder sometimes if I could ever do that."

Tom smiled at her. "You’re thirteen," he said. "And I’m almost fourteen. She was, too, once. You can’t compare yourself to a lady her age. You are already very impressive in your own right, and both of us will be extremely powerful when we are adults."

She seemed to accept this and returned to her dinner. Tom watched her eat, thinking of many things. A peculiar new feeling formed inside him as he stole glances at Hermione. He had a hunch he knew what it meant, but he was not prepared to confront it, so he turned to his own dinner.

Considerable snow fell overnight, and they awoke the following morning to a blanket of white coating everything outside. It was a fitting introduction to winter, and Tom was pleased. He smirked to himself at the thought of throwing snowballs at Hermione.

He dressed and went downstairs to the family dining room, a small room where the family usually had meals whenever there was no occasion for a grand banquet for Mother to preside. The elves had cooked a nice breakfast, and Tom eagerly began to eat once his mother and Hermione were there. Severus Snape, his mother’s chief vassal, was also present. Tom took note of the fact that he was eating meals in the family dining room now....

Merope greeted them, then turned to Snape. "Since we are among family... and close friends... here, how is the search for the Pettigrew family?"

Snape grimaced. "Not going well, I am afraid. Carrow says that he doesn’t know where the dowager went. The story is that the son is dead, but he isn’t sure of that either."

Merope frowned. "And the Lestranges are still not inclined to release the Carrows?"

"They are not."

"They should have done so as soon as they learned that I was alive. The Carrow family is sworn to heirs of... the Gaunts," she said with some distaste that Tom noticed, "and although my late brother was a bad lord, and certainly harmed them personally, what the Carrows did was oathbreaking, from a strict interpretation. My brother was alive when they left, even if they did not know that I was." She paused, considering what she herself had just said. "Are the Lestranges afraid I would punish the Carrows for that? Because I wouldn’t."

Snape shook his head. "I don’t think that is what it is," he said slowly. "The Lestranges are still angry with your family"—he glanced apologetically at Tom and Hermione—"over the incident early in the fall with the daughter and Lady Hermione, and they think that Lord Thomas exposed her conduct to her former betrothed. I think Lestrange is keeping them sworn to him out of spite."

Merope glowered at her food. "This is a serious offense," she said, her words hard. "I have only been a ruling lady for a few months, but I am already tired of this high-handed and arbitrarily lawless behavior. It did not use to be this way, I thought."

Tom spoke up at once. "I don’t think it was either, Mother," he said. "This is the doing of the usurping lords." He glanced at Hermione momentarily. "The Muggle Norman king gave them considerable independence, and they have used it to bully other magical people."

"There is little, if anything, that we can do about the Muggle political situation," Merope said. "We have to consider our own problems... and Severus, somehow we’ll have to determine whether the Pettigrew family are actually all gone or not. I need wizarding vassals."

"Why not raise other families to a title... my lady?" Hermione suggested. "I have a friend at Hogwarts who lives in the town of Godric’s Hollow. He says that there are many magical families who live there... and also in the village of Hogsmeade."

"Godric’s Hollow is ruled by Lucius Malfoy, the grandson of Armand," Snape said sourly. "They are his subjects. We can’t poach them." His black eyes gleamed. "Hogsmeade, though...."

"How did that happen, anyway?" Tom inquired. "Godric’s Hollow being ruled by a Malfoy, I mean."

Snape sat back. "That is a story. The town was founded by Godric Gryffindor—"

"Yes, my friend mentioned that," Hermione said eagerly.

Snape peered at her through narrowed eyes. His glare was more intimidating than any words would have been, and Hermione drew back, not inclined to interrupt again.

"Gryffindor founded the town," Snape continued repressively. "He was also the lord there—the last English one. When the Normans came, he welcomed the magical among them... and was repaid by being booted out of his own castle by the Malfoys."

"He should have known better," Tom muttered.

Snape ignored this. "It was Armand Malfoy’s seat until he completed Malfoy Manor in its present location. Then he installed a series of temporary lords there until his son, Abraxas, was old enough to hold it. Once he started to groom Abraxas for the lordship at Malfoy Manor, it passed to Lucius."

"How old is he?" Hermione exclaimed. "Armand Malfoy, I mean. He has to be a hundred, at least."

"He is close to High Master Dumbledore’s age," Snape said. "I am sure that Abraxas is ready to inherit. In any case, Lucius rules Godric’s Hollow, waiting until the day that his father will inherit the true family seat and start to prepare him for it. None of them, frankly, take much interest in the town. It is a stepping-stone for them, a temporary holding for them to learn how to rule. I think they also resent the residents—the magical ones, especially."

"Interesting," Tom mused. "One would think they would resent the Muggles more, given what they believe about blood."

"Muggles are powerless. There is no point in resenting Muggles. But most of the magical families were knights and titled vassal lieges of Godric Gryffindor when he ruled, and most of the Muggle families who have magical children are also descended from that lineage. The magic, in their cases, just skipped a generation or two. But they remember what they used to have—what the Malfoys are keeping from them now. It is not a happy town."

Hermione was thinking hard about what Snape had said. Harry had not told her any of this. He had not wanted to discuss his hometown, and had always changed the subject slightly to his own family and the family store whenever she brought it up.

Harry’s parents are probably descended from vassals of Godric Gryffindor, she thought. Harry likely should have a title, by rights. He had been done out of his inheritance just as Tom had for so long.

Tom had arrived at the same conclusion. He glanced at Hermione with a hint of alarm in his face. The idea of Potter with a title... that would raise his position very much as a rival for Hermione, if that happened....

He took Hermione’s hand under the table, invisible to the adults, prompting her surprise. He caressed her fingers. "The friend that she spoke of stood by her after the ugly incident with Lady Adelaide Lestrange," he said. "It is only natural that we would want the best for our proven friends, and it is a dreadful pity that Mother cannot swear them to her service here." He pasted a false smile on his face, hoping that its insincerity was not apparent to anyone else.

Tom enjoyed a happy day with Hermione, luring her out into the snow-covered courtyard after he had spent time making a large pile of snowballs. He sent them at her with a flick of his wand, watching and laughing as she tried vainly to take cover.

"Should have cast a Shield Charm," he called out as she sat down in a heap of snow, covered in yet more of it.

She stayed there, burying her head between her knees as flakes continued to drift down from the sky, dotting her frizzy hair. Tom became alarmed. Had he hurt her feelings? He hadn’t meant to... it had been in fun.... He walked gingerly to where she sat in the snowbank.

In a flash, Hermione grabbed his legs, tripping him. He collapsed in the snow, getting soaked and cold immediately. She dumped an armful of snow unceremoniously on top of his head, laughing uproariously. Tom realized at once what had happened. She had tricked him into coming over, pretending to be upset.

"I wouldn’t have been able to get you if I’d cast a spell," she laughed. Her eyes were shining. In spite of himself, Tom laughed too.

Unfortunately, she had to return to her parents’ castle on the twenty-fourth to prepare for their Christmas feast. She would stay there for about a week, returning to Parselhall for Tom’s birthday on the thirty-first, the last day of the year. She had promised him a gift.

His mother held a Christmas feast herself. Tom was pleased, even though he missed Hermione. It just seemed natural now that she should sit next to him at grand banquets. Come to think of it, she had been at every grand banquet he had attended since his mother gained her title, including those at Hogwarts. To Tom, there was a gap for this feast, an empty spot. He always talked to Hermione at these dinners. He liked talking to Hermione. It just... wasn’t right that she wasn’t here.

She’ll be here again in a few days, he reminded himself as he polished off a tender, juicy chunk of goose.

December 31, 1143 dawned clear and cold. The snow was old now, but the temperature had not risen above freezing since Yule, so the ground remained white when Hermione appeared at the entrance to the castle that morning, carrying a large parcel awkwardly.

"I am a bit worried about this," she confessed as soon as she was welcomed inside. "I cast spells to keep it warm, but it is so cold, and I am not quite sure...."

Merope picked up the parcel and carried it to the fire in the family parlor. "If it is something that needs to be kept warm, perhaps Tom should open it now," she suggested. "We were going to have a special dinner tonight in the family dining room, but it is his birthday already."

Hermione looked grateful and relieved. "That would be for the best."

Tom had no qualms about not waiting until dinner. A gift was a gift, and Mother was right—it was his birthday. He strode to the fireplace and began to fiddle with the latch of the box before remembering his wand. He drew it from his robes, flicked it at the box, and opened the metal latch.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. Inside the box was a coating of wood chips and dead grass lining the bottom of the box—and coiled into one corner, half-buried under grass, was a harmless brown grass snake. Tom extended his arm eagerly and hissed a greeting to the snake in Parseltongue.

The snake lifted its head. Its tongue flicked out of its mouth, as if the animal was contemplating this "speaker" and considering whether to offer its loyalty. In a moment, it was decided: The snake slithered around Tom’s wrist, hissing back in its own language.

Hermione watched, transfixed at the exchange that she could not understand. Merope could understand, and she knew that Tom was saying nothing untoward or sinister, but this still brought back unpleasant memories.

Tom is nothing like Morfin or my father, she told herself sternly. He is my son. He just happens to be able to speak to snakes, as I can myself. It was a good gift for Hermione to give him. Tom has wanted a serpent familiar for a long time, and he meant to buy himself one when we were poor, but since we became rich, the idea of spending money lost its special significance. It no longer had the same meaning—but a gift from her does have meaning.

"This is a female snake," Tom remarked for Hermione’s benefit. "I think her name should be...." He hesitated, thinking. He hissed to the snake queryingly, then looked back at the women. "Well, she approves of my idea. Her name is Dunlaith, the "brown lady.’"

The snake flicked its tongue out once more. Hermione beamed.