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They fell into the almost ritualistic pattern of motions. Their breaths grew deep and rapid, and their skin became increasingly heated. Had it not been autumn, or had they not been in such a vast castle that was difficult to keep warm in cool times even for master witches and wizards, they would have grown slick with sweat, but instead it evaporated at once, thickening the air immediately around them. Hermione had her release first, digging her fingernails into his back, prompting him to gasp out in surprise—but not displeasure. Another thrust—and then he came for her. He breathed deeply and relaxed on her, their mutual warmth keeping them comfortable despite their nudity in the drafty castle.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, their breaths and heartbeats returning to normal. After they had lapsed into lazy relaxation, Hermione hugged him around the waist, the gesture somehow completely innocent despite the circumstances. "Are you not glad after all that your mother chose me for you?" she teased.

He smirked sideways. "I chose you. If I had not, we would be in our separate chambers in the Slytherin dormitories, ice cold and wretched as most noble couples."

Hermione could not find any pleasure in the thought of other aristocratic couples’ icy resigned discontent, so she focused on the rest of his comment. "Would you have chosen me if, somehow, I had been allowed into Hogwarts as an unattached Muggle-born witch and probably been sorted into a different House? Would you have noticed me at all?"

He considered it. "I think I would have. You still would have been exceptional at magic, and you would have been advanced in Potions, Arithmancy, and Runes—since that is what happened. I would have noticed you." He kissed the side of her cheek and rose off her slowly. "I marked in my diary the date that we consummated our betrothal. As far as I am concerned, and by ancient magical custom, that is our marriage date."

Hermione smiled as she reached for her robes. "We’ll have to have one that is official for everyone else, of course."

"Of course." Tom pulled his robes on and tied his belt. He noticed the mark that was starting to form on Hermione’s neck and drew his wand. "Here," he said. "I should heal that."

She felt the rush of magic over her skin as the bruise faded.

Tom regarded her contemplatively for a moment, thinking of what they had just been discussing. Ancient magical custom.... Something suddenly occurred to him, something incredibly important, something that he had to find out.

"Hermione," he said excitedly, "I just realized—the ancient custom is that consummating a betrothal counts as marriage." He began speaking rapidly as his thoughts whirled and one conclusion after another came to him. "I read last year that, before Merlin got his claws into Arthur, he—Arthur—went to the other children of Igraine and suggested uniting the lines. Morgana was a witch and would have known the old customs. That means that if he and Morgana entered an engagement, Mordred was legitimate."

Hermione was staring at Tom with growing disconcert as he bubbled over with this revelation. "Tom," she said, trying to calm him, "that is very interesting, to be sure, but—"

"I have to find out if they were," he said almost to himself. "I have to read those books! Mother should not keep them from me. It’s wrong of her. I could have a great destiny—"

"Tom," Hermione said again, "that may be true about the ancient ritual, but they were half-siblings. That fact annuls any "marriage’ that they may have had."

"People thought differently in the past," he said arrogantly. "If they considered it valid then, then the power of that conviction is what made it valid. We are talking about a magical rite. Intent is everything in magic."

Hermione stared at him, not liking the gleam in his eyes at all. "Tom, please calm yourself. This is fascinating knowledge, but you would be in terrible danger if you claimed to be an heir to a throne. The Malfoys would consider it treason even to say it. You are not yet fifteen years old, Tom, and a pupil at Hogwarts! We can’t think of such things now. We have to think about achieving mastery of magic, and then we are going to have a public wedding, and start a family, and someday you will be lord of Hangleton."

"I want more than that," he whispered. "You heard that bint Adelaide Lestrange this morning. If nothing changes, we will be swearing an oath to Draco Malfoy and her. I can’t bear that idea."

She lowered her voice, though there was no one else to hear. "We can work to restore the Wizengamot. That is a goal we can achieve, I think. But that’s dangerous enough, and we should not speak of these things in public." A dark suspicion crossed Hermione’s mind. "If you talk about ideas like this with your friends, please be careful."

He considered her words carefully and nodded in agreement. What he was not going to tell her was that he had no intention of settling for small things.

That night, once he was back in his own private bedchamber in Slytherin House, he brought out the prototype of the seal he was going to make for his circle of friends. The raven at the center of the Celtic knotwork and Ouroboros looked bare and bald. Tom drew the crown atop its head once again.

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire.

The grand table at Malfoy Manor was bedighted for Hallowe’en. The assembled witches and wizards feasted on traditional foods and drank spiced cider, ale, and wine, toasting each other increasingly boisterously as the night wore on. Abraxas Malfoy supported his father, the high lord of all wizarding Britain, for the latter had only had his secret tonic just before the feast and he still had not recovered fully from the acute aftereffects.

Every adult member of the Malfoy, Lestrange, and Black families—sans the disowned Sirius Black—was present at the head table. Regulus, Andromeda, and Dora were visibly less pleased than the rest of the guests at the revelry and growing intoxication of most of their companions, but they were attempting to rally themselves. The high families had several guests. Amycus and Alecto Carrow, sworn to the Lestrange family, also sat there, along with Caractacus Burke. He looked very pleased indeed.

Bellatrix Lestrange raised her goblet high in the air. "To my noble daughter and the heir of House Malfoy, though they are absent from this banquet. May their blood be ever pure!"

Lucius Malfoy smiled in approval.

"Lady Adelaide and Lord Draco!" several fellow revelers joined in, sloshing wine and cider all over the table.

"To the death of the filthy in our midst!" bawled Bellatrix, raising her goblet for a second toast. This one was joined by Burke, and rather eagerly, Regulus and his family observed.

The bangs and thumps ceased as Armand Malfoy rose, his color at last restored, and began to speak.

"My friends and subjects," he said, "we have among us tonight a pair of very special guests. Lord Amycus and Lady Alecto Carrow swore fealty to my kinsman by marriage, Lord Lestrange, believing that the family they had formerly served was extinct." His thin lips spread into a smile, but the outlines of his teeth were visible through his skin. "They now know that this is not true, that Lady Merope Riddle lives. Her chief vassal, Severus Snape, sought to recall them to Castle Gaunt—or Parselhall, as the lady calls it now, forsaking her own family name."

Bellatrix let out a hiss of disgust.

"Since that lady bore a half-blood son and betrothed him to a Mudblood, exploiting a law while defying the spirit of a Wizards’ Council decision in the most blatant of ways, the Carrows now choose freely to renew their vow of fealty to the Lestrange family."

The assembled guests burst into a roar of approval and glee, sans the three youngest Blacks, though they too applauded, as they must.

"They do this with the full knowledge of the living Gaunt heirs and their disgrace, and hereby renounce all oaths to that family, as it has dishonored itself and is unworthy of loyalty—so long as the half-blood and Mudblood live," he added evilly.

The Carrows rose and bent their knees before Rodolphus Lestrange, repeating the oath of fealty to him. Bellatrix smiled gleefully at the proceedings.

After this, the guests resumed their conversations. Caractacus Burke smirked and drew an object out of his belt pouch to show to the wizard seated next to him, who happened to be Regulus Black himself.

"This is the locket of Salazar Slytherin," he said conspiratorially, dangling it before Regulus. "I bought it off "Lady’ Riddle when she was heavy with child."

Regulus gazed coolly at the locket. "That is very interesting and undoubtedly valuable," he said.

Burke put it back into the pouch. "It is. I’m very proud of owning it. Did you catch what his lordship said about "so long as the half-blood and Mudblood live’?"

"Everyone did."

Burke nodded and took a long draught of ale. "Their lordships would like me to marry the blood-traitor witch, and I might get used to the idea in time... but I would want some compensation for it."

"You would be the consort of a lady ruling a valuable and ancient fief," Regulus said.

"Indeed—consort. That’s the problem, my lord. It just doesn’t seem right that someone who never dishonored his blood, like me, should be subject to someone like her. I’d want more before I agree to this, and so does my lord, Arcturus Black. He also doesn’t think that the castle can be stormed, so the lady could refuse an alliance anyway and there would be nothing that could be done about it. Wizarding law doesn’t give nobles the power to force other nobles to marry anyone." He lowered his voice. "As for the half-blood and his Mudblood, I don’t see the need to kill the boy, with all due respect to his high lordship. I hear that the half-blood is very proud of being a descendant of Slytherin. I suppose it’s all he has that he can find pride in. Let him teach at Hogwarts, since he has such regard for a damned schoolmaster."

Regulus considered what Burke was telling him, making mental note of it in his memory.

"My friends," Tom began, his tones formal and ceremonial, "I have invited you here tonight to form an alliance, a secret order amongst ourselves. I have chosen you five because you have shown respect and loyalty to the ancient magical culture of our native land."

Flint, Fawley, Avery, Wilkes, and Nott gazed back at Tom in a semicircle, their eyes radiating agreement.

"I have created seals for all of us to carry in our belt pouches," he said. He held up his own. "They bear an example of the craft of our ancestors, a serpent consuming itself to symbolize eternity—the eternal continuance of our people—and a crowned raven, because as you know, I am the last descendant of the Wizard-King in Exile." He removed the rest of the seals and held them in the palm of his hand. "These seals will grow heated when I have an important message to send, such as a summons. The message will be imprinted in invisible runes on the seal. When the seal is hot, you may press it into wax and instead of the symbol—which is what will appear when I am not activating the charm—the runic message will appear in the wax." He passed out the seals to his followers.

The boys turned the objects over in their hands, regarding them. Tom returned to the middle of the semicircle and regarded each wizard in turn. "I see that I have your loyalty in mind," he said, projecting confidence—and, he noted, visibly surprising Nott and Wilkes that he had become so good at Legilimency. "I now ask for your loyalty in words. We are people of magic, and both thought and word are power for us."

Each boy knelt and swore an oath of loyalty to Tom. They rose, and he regarded them with a faint smile. "Although it is Samhain, the six of us met as a group for the first time on the first of May, earlier this year. It was informal, but in recognition of that, you are now my Lords of Beltane." He raised his wand. "We stand on our ancient rights and will never kneel to the unworthy."

Nott and Wilkes exchanged glances, apparently deciding something between themselves nonverbally. Nott gulped and spoke up. "My lord, there is something I wish to understand better."

Tom regarded Nott tolerantly.

"Your betrothed... she is of invader descent, in part, as well as being a Mudblood."

Tom interrupted at once. "You will not speak of her by that word."

"I beg your pardon, your lordship. But what of her? I mean... I understand that your lady mother and her parents made the plans... we all have to honor our families’ wishes, of course... but your lordship spends a lot of time with her. I almost expected her to be here. Are your real heirs actually going to be...."

Tom was glaring stonily at the boy. "Do not ever suggest again that I would betray her. She is part Norman, it is true, but she is also part English. The wizarding ancestors from whom she inherited magic are undoubtedly in the English lines, since the invaders destroyed the records of the English lords they displaced, putting their own family histories in their stead."

"Yes, my lord. Forgive me."

"I forgive you. Do not let it happen again."

After the meeting broke up, Tom considered Nott’s words. His Lords would need to learn their place, and never speak of Hermione disrespectfully... but perhaps there was a grain of wisdom in Nott’s remarks. He had been discreet about their intimacies, but it was clearly apparent to his schoolmates that he truly liked and was attracted to Hermione. That was unusual for noble lordlings, and they had noticed. It would not do to flaunt his private emotions for her to outsiders. That was a vulnerability. They could think that he had to marry a witch who was not of pure wizarding or pure English stock because his mother had arranged it. That was something they could understand. It was not a betrayal of the cause. They did not need to know that he wanted to be with her.

Hermione snuggled closer to Tom as she sat next to him. They were in their secret room, curled up together and fully dressed—although their robes were still on them but loosely, after a satisfying romp on the transfigured mattress.

We really ought to be back in the common room, Hermione thought, but I would have been... hungry... without this. It was true; ever since they had become intimate, it seemed that they needed to be intimate more and more. Hermione was starting to worry that someone would catch on, but so far, no one seemed to have noticed.

Except possibly Harry, she thought with some slight disquiet. He has given Tom studying looks when we return to the common room from this and he is there. He must realize that, at a minimum, we are affectionate in private. It’s fortunate that he is a friend. Malfoy and Lestrange have not noticed, at least. That would be bad.

She thought about what might happen if either of those two learned of her activities with Tom. Malfoy, perhaps, might not care—at least, of his own accord. He regarded Hermione with contempt, but he did not make a special point of tormenting her. But for Adelaide Lestrange, it was much more than contempt; it was loathing, and it was personal. She knew that Hermione had cost her her first betrothal and hurt her reputation among Slytherins. She was not especially happy with Malfoy, either, so she was having to content herself with the vision of Tom and Hermione kneeling down before her. Hermione knew without a doubt that if she found out about Hermione’s intimacy with Tom, she would not hesitate to destroy Hermione over it.

Hermione could see it clearly. Since it was not shocking that she was sleeping with her fiancé, and since the "solution" would merely be early marriage, Adelaide would say that any girl who did that might have done more. She might make insinuations about Harry Potter or even his friend Neville. Adelaide was a vindictive person—like her mother, apparently—and Hermione realized that she needed to be quite careful.

She turned to Tom. "We should get ourselves in order and return to the common room now," she urged him gently. He sighed in dissatisfaction but did not argue the point.

Once they were back in the common room, a cluster of five boys approached Tom. They did not surround him, Hermione observed, but rather hovered near him. It was almost as if they were... waiting for her to move away from him. She quickly glanced at them. Flint, Fawley, Avery, Nott, and Wilkes—the same five whom she saw around him increasingly frequently. His gaze darted between the boys and Hermione, as if he were deciding in what direction to go.

She linked her arm with his and smiled at him. "I need to speak with you," she said. He looked for a moment as if he wanted to argue, because he saw right through it—and he probably does, as a Legilimens, she thought—but he let her lead him into a private nook by a window.

"Are you still meeting with those boys?" she asked quietly.

He met her eyes with his own in a defiant stare. "I am. I hope it’s not a problem for you that I am making allies."

His sharp tone of voice took her aback. "Of course not," she said. "We agreed that we should do it—but that’s the issue, Tom. We should do it. I have not been to any of these meetings. If you are the leader, then why are you excluding me?"

Tom hesitated. "It’s a group for wizards," he said. "None of the boys have brought in sisters or fiancées."

Hermione stared at him. "Muggles would exclude women, but I didn’t think...."

"Hermione, you must have noticed that, even though witches can do all manner of things in our world that they aren’t allowed to do in the Muggle world, there are still some... traditions. You understood when I couldn’t magically attack Lestrange. This is another one. The boys would question why I involved you in an order for wizards."

"Order?" she exclaimed. "This group is now an "order’? Tom, what do you discuss? That is all I want to know, what goes on."

"I can’t tell you here."

She glanced around. Although she had not raised her voice that much, she wanted to be certain that no one was eavesdropping on their conversation—and it did not appear that anyone was. "Very well. You need to tell me the next time we’re alone, though."

Hermione fretted into the night about Tom. All of a sudden, after they were so close, it seemed that they were drifting apart again—or, rather, that Tom was pulling away from her. It made her anxious. She would still "have" him, but after the happy experiences with true closeness to him, she did not want to lose that closeness either. If we had remained as we were at the beginning of last autumn, I would not have known any different, she thought, trying to go to sleep. I would have assumed it was simply how things were and that it was not my part to be involved in any of his doings. –For a while, at least. Being around witches in this sphere of society would have changed my views anyway. But it did not happen that way—we did become close—and I can tell the difference. He has been cagey and evasive about these interests of his, but he has not been sharp with me about it.

What was he doing? What was he talking about with these boys? Hermione had a bad feeling that she knew. Tom himself had said that Slytherin’s chamber was part of the discussions, and Hermione had not forgotten Tom’s effusive reaction to his epiphany about King Arthur’s son. She did not think he had any business looking for a killer beast in the school. That was the immediate danger: that this alleged chamber did exist, that it did contain a basilisk, and that Tom found it and something unthinkable happened. Hermione shuddered in dread at the idea that she would not even allow her mind to put into words.

The thought occurred to her that he might indeed survive the first encounter, tame the creature, and then use it against his "enemies," but she would not entertain that notion either. Tom was not like that, she assured herself. Not her Tom. He had strong feelings of loyalty, love, and—yes—hate, but he would not actually do something like that.

And then there was the other heritage-related obsession that he had. If the Chamber of Slytherin was potentially dangerous to his life immediately, then talking about a restoration of a line from six centuries ago was dangerous to his life in a longer term—the term to conduct a treason trial, perhaps, if the wrong people found out that he was discussing such a thing. Surely he had identified boys who were not allied with the Malfoys or the Wizards’ Council.... He is a Legilimens now, she thought, suddenly reassured. He would have checked them first. He may not be a master Legilimens, but he’s certainly good enough to detect the attempts of young wizards his own age to hide something crucial. That made Hermione feel better about this. In time, this particular obsession would surely diminish, as he developed a better idea of what was actually possible political change. He has not been among the nobles that long even now, she told herself with not a small degree of smugness. And for most of that time, he has been at Hogwarts, or alone with me on the castle grounds, rather than consulting with his mother or Lord Severus. He will learn more about it in time.

Reassured at least on that matter, Hermione soon gained the sleep she sought.

Hermione stepped into the Slytherin common room the next morning and found herself in the middle of an icy dispute, cold and threatening, Slytherin-style. Daphne Greengrass was glaring at Draco Malfoy as if she wanted to murder him. She pointed her wand directly at his face, and the venom in her eyes was more poisonous than Hermione had ever seen in the young witch. Malfoy was backed against a wall, trembling faintly, but attempting to put on a show of defiance. Adelaide Lestrange was ready to attack Daphne, and her pack of girls looked to follow her in that action, but behind Daphne stood her new fiancé, Marcus Flint, along with Edgar Fawley. Silently, Tom stood in a shadowy corner, observing the proceedings with a keen eye.

"Do you think I didn’t see you?" Daphne hissed, her voice low and menacing. The tip of her wand danced dangerously close to Malfoy’s eyes.

Malfoy swallowed. Hermione observed the lump bob in his throat. "I admit to nothing, Greengrass—"

"That’s Lady Daphne to you!"

"Do you know who I am?" Malfoy sneered, mustering what passed for his courage.

"Do I know who you are?" she mocked. "Here are the facts, Malfoy—and no, I shall not dignify you with a title. We aren’t Muggles here. We don’t observe the filthy Muggle droit de seigneur, whatever you Normans may want to do—"

Hermione blanched at that. That allegation was absolutely false, at least as it related to the town her parents ruled—and the Norman family whose daughter became her paternal grandmother. However, Tom’s gaze sharpened and flitted to Daphne with interest.

"I have never touched your sister," Malfoy snarled.

"You want to," Daphne growled, the menace seeping from her voice into the whole room. "I’ve seen the way you stare at her. Let us make something crystal clear, Malfoy—you will not behave like a Muggle swine lordling here. Witches have power."

"How dare you?" Adelaide Lestrange cut in, outrage rumbling through her words. She drew her wand and pointed it at Daphne’s furious face. "How dare you speak to one of your betters in such a way! Swine? The only pig I see is a sow of a girl who threatens her future lord!"

Daphne scoffed at the wand that was directed at her. "Have you no self-respect at all? Or is this another Muggle noble custom that your kind have adopted? Your betrothed is looking at other women, because he hates you—"

"Crucio!" the girl bawled.

Daphne crashed to the floor, her palms slapping against the stone surface as she fell. She twitched once, and it did not appear that the torture curse would hurt her for very long—but Hermione was already jumping into the fray.

Reducto! she cast silently at Adelaide. The element of surprise gave her the advantage. The jet of light struck Adelaide and blasted her across the room, ending her torture of Daphne and sending her careening into the wall. She hit with a thud and a crack, slumping down to the floor with a groan.

Draco Malfoy stared at Hermione in outrage. He drew his wand, ready to curse her, when Tom finally stepped forward. "Do not do it, Malfoy," he warned. He pointed his own wand between Malfoy’s eyes. "Your fiancée had that coming."

"Your Mudblood had no right to attack her—"

"She has every right to defend her friend from a curse. As Lady Daphne said, your family have not put it into law that high wizarding lords may do anything they please, let alone high lords’ heirs and heiresses."

Malfoy looked as if he wanted to challenge Tom, but he did not; evidently Tom knew what he was talking about. He shot Hermione a glare of unadulterated hate as he grudgingly helped Adelaide Lestrange up.

"You need to go to the Healer," he said brusquely. She was looking pale and faint. Hermione felt a momentary flash of guilt; had the impact fractured Adelaide’s skull?

She was torturing Daphne, Hermione reminded herself. She went over to Daphne, who was getting to her feet, and extended her a hand.

"Thank you," the girl muttered.

"Excuse us for a moment," Tom said to Daphne, pulling Hermione aside. She wondered what he was doing, but she did not have to wonder long. As soon as they were out of the hearing of the remaining Slytherins, he turned to her with alarm and disapproval in his eyes. "Why did you do that?" he asked her quietly.