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mickume

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"I trust you!" he exclaimed at once, pulling her close. His voice sounded sincere, she noted.

"But you don’t trust them," she concluded.

He was silent for a moment. "I don’t know what their agenda really is. I can’t believe it is only about Hogwarts, and what you have told me does not change my mind."

"Their agenda could be compatible with yours."

"That’s why I would like you to find out what they are up to," he said. He glanced around the corridor quickly to make sure they were alone, then kissed her on the cheek. "I trust you, Hermione. I trust Potter, more or less. I don’t even know the rest of them, though."

"You could come to their meetings—"

"No, I couldn’t," he said at once. "I have allies of my own, and we own the fact that we are not just interested in policies of Hogwarts. I don’t think Potter’s friends are being honest. How could anyone not want power?" He kissed her again. "It’s all right, Hermione."

She really, really hoped that it was.

The following day passed uneventfully. Adelaide Lestrange and her pack of girls kept giving Hermione, Tom, and Harry sinister looks, but they did not do anything overly threatening. Through the whole day, Hermione’s anxiety level rose, as she wondered what they were waiting to do and when they would do it.

That evening, High Master Dumbledore himself stood before the dinner tables in the Great Hall to make an announcement. His face was grim and unhappy as he spoke.

"I have been ordered by the high wizarding lords of England, Scotland, and Wales to inform you of new laws affecting our people," he said, sadness in his words.

Tom had been interested in his dinner, but with this comment, his full attention transferred to Dumbledore. Apprehension filled his handsome face.

"First, the wearing of Celtic or Anglo-Saxon symbols is hereby prohibited anywhere on school grounds, or public places, or in a position of authority as a lord or lady of Wizarding Britain, for those of noble birth," he said.

Tom’s eyes widened in shock—and then rage.

"Second, I am obliged to tell you that the high lords have instated—in their words—"firm laws establishing authority’ and that after New Year’s Day, all commands and orders from a member of the Wizards’ Council carry the same force as the text of the Codex of Wizarding Law. That is all." Dumbledore rolled up his scroll and took his seat grimly.

Hermione turned to Tom with horror. "They told! She told her parents—"

Tom was fingering the medallion on his robes. "It won’t stand," he said, his words dark and threatening.

Tom Riddle strode into the Slytherin common room the next morning to wait for Hermione, so that they could walk to the breakfast table together. He rather hoped that Malfoy or Lestrange—or any of their friends—would be present, but the common room was deserted.

In a moment, Hermione appeared at the threshold of the girls’ dormitory area. She scanned the common room. Her eyes widened when she saw Tom standing smugly in the center of the room.

"You mean to defy them outright?" she asked quietly, her eyes still wide as plates, as they linked arms.

He smirked at her and began to walk toward the door with her. "Armand Malfoy’s decree said "Celtic or Anglo-Saxon symbols,’" he said. He raised his other arm, allowing the dark green silk with pewter-grey Celtic knotwork embroidery to shimmer. "This is just a decoration. It does not symbolize anything."

"They could just amend the decree," she said as they exited the common room.

"Amend the decree to say what?" he said. "If they ban wearing anything depicting Celtic art, I will just carry something with it that is not an article of clothing. If they say that all forms of art and craft associated with Celtic culture are banned, that would mean the destruction of a great many books of magic, too, that happen to have Celtic knot borders, or Celtic-styled decorative letters, illuminating the pages."

"That is true, but three members of the Wizards’ Council—or all of them—did decide to empower themselves that way." She scowled. "At least before, any change to the law required a majority of the Council, even if there are only four wizards on it."

Tom continued to smirk. "They have overreached, I think. This means that if Black, for instance, wants something different to what the rest of the Council wants—or any of them, for that matter—they will just unleash chaos among themselves with competing decrees."

Hermione frowned. "Are you sure? I thought it meant that Armand Malfoy alone now has unchallenged power over the entire wizarding community of Britain. Since any member of the Wizards’ Council can make law without the approval of two others, legal authority in a conflict reverts to noble rank—and he has the highest."

Tom stopped cold in the hallway. He gazed at Hermione, surprise and disgust spreading over his face. "You’re right," he said abruptly. "I did not even think of that, but you are right. He just made himself a king without a crown." Tom’s handsome face seethed at this revelation. "And what blood right does he have to this country’s throne? None."

Hermione instantly knew where Tom’s thoughts had led—his own descent from the line of Arthur—and she acted to distract him from blurting something in the hall that would be very dangerous if the wrong people overheard. "It’s possible that he still overreached," she said. "Lord Black and Lord Abraxas Malfoy—and I think Lord Lestrange too—were not violently against my admission at Hogwarts. They may disagree with Lord Malfoy over other matters, too. They obviously approved this new law very quickly, and I doubt they thought much about how it would restrict their own power."

Tom gazed darkly ahead. "That is very... hopeful of you," he said.

"Let’s see what comes of it," she urged. They were before the grand doors to the Great Hall, so he nodded silently and pushed them open.

As he ate breakfast, Tom pretended not to notice the impressed and fearful looks that several people were giving him—a couple of his own Lords of Beltane, Harry Potter, Professor Slughorn at the head table—but he was acutely aware of the interest that his defiance garnered.

Finally Adelaide Lestrange spoke, her voice low and malicious.

"You are a criminal, Riddle."

Tom set down his spoon and gazed evenly at her. "How so, my "lady’?" His sarcasm on the final word was heavy.

"You know exactly how. Those robes are illegal."

"No, they are not," he said, smirking. "The Wizards’ Council banned symbols. This embroidery is merely decorative."

"Yes, decorative. Tell me, if you think it is a symbol, then what does it symbolize?"

"It is symbolic of your primitive ancestors!" she snarled. "It symbolizes your dead culture! You wear something created by people who were defeated by the Romans, and then by several waves of barbarian tribes even before my family came. They were ground into the dirt they ate!"

Tom leaned forward, his face white with anger. "My lady mother ordered these robes sewn for me because they are opulent and the decoration is appealing. To her, it symbolizes noble status."

"I do not believe that. Your mother is of the same blood. They symbolize your dead culture," she repeated, apparently enamored of that phrase as an insult.

He pulled a book from his satchel and opened it to a page with similar decorations adorning the pages. "Is that what it symbolizes on these pages?" he hissed. "Is that what it symbolizes on tapestries in this school? What about all the magical artifacts that have this sort of decoration? Are you going to insist on destroying everything that contains something resembling Celtic art?"

Adelaide sneered back at him. "I see that you are just like your mother in that you try to exploit the laws that your superiors created, defying the spirit while adhering to the letter. Your filthy Mudblood should not be here either. She should be with dirty Muggles where she belongs. I suppose it does make sense for her to be given to you, since you also have impure blood, but she does not belong here."

"Violent usurpers are never "superiors,’" Tom said, his voice so low that only Hermione and Adelaide could hear.

Adelaide’s race turned as red as a beet. "How dare you?" she seethed. She drew her wand at pointed it across the table at him. "You had better watch yourself before you speak treason."

"Wands away," High Master Dumbledore announced, his voice amplified by magic. He was staring directly at the Slytherin table. "No duels over meals."

Adelaide gave Tom another hate-filled sneer before putting her wand up. Tom’s gaze did not leave her face for the rest of breakfast.

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire.

Abraxas Malfoy rubbed his forehead. "Elf," he commanded.

The Malfoys’ principal house-elf, Dobby, appeared, looking worn down and resentful to a more observant eye—but Abraxas did not notice the feelings or opinions of those beneath him. "What can Dobby do for Master Abraxas?" the elf croaked, a gleam of anger in his wide eyes.

"Bring me a bottle of wine," Abraxas commanded, "and a goblet. A pair of goblets," he amended, "in case my lord father desires some too."

Armand Malfoy was raging in anger. "What I desire is a tonic!"

"Father," Abraxas soothed, "the source is not ready for harvest yet. The wine will be good for you." He turned to look at the elf, who was still present in the room. "What are you still doing here? Get to it, elf!"

With a glare of loathing, Dobby disappeared. He returned in a minute with the requested bottle of wine, a decanter, and two silver goblets with the Malfoy coat of arms.

"This came from across the way," Abraxas said to his father as Dobby poured the wine for them. "Always a good way to remember the old country."

The two wizards accepted their goblets without a word of thanks.

"It has been many years since you visited," Armand Malfoy said, taking a sip. "In fact...."

"Yes, I have not been there since my lady wife’s funeral," he said. "Are you feeling better now, Father?"

Armand took another sip, which dribbled down his chin like a trickle of blood. Abraxas averted his eyes. "I am calmer," Armand admitted, "but this just means I can think more clearly. I want the head of the Riddle half-blood."

Abraxas stared at his father in appalled astonishment. That did not, in his opinion, qualify as a clear-minded response. "Father, that’s a terrible idea, with all respect."

"I can order it now, and who could contest me?"

"Father," Abraxas said patiently, "ordering the execution of a fourteen-year-old boy for wearing certain robes will result in a mass uprising. You must realize that."

Armand smiled malevolently. "We have authority. If they try to revolt, we will put them down just as Lucius put down the peasants in Godric’s Hollow."

"Father, I don’t think it will be that easy. You will recall, too, that Lucius was only able to have two of the rebels executed. The rest escaped. If you order Riddle’s execution, he and the Mudblood will just Disapparate to his mother’s castle and stay safe behind those impregnable walls, probably offering support and shelter to anyone who joins with them."

"He violated the law."

"Technically, my lord father, he did not. As Draco writes, he declared that the embroidery on his robes does not symbolize anything specific, and asserts that similar decorative art appears on a wide variety of books and artifacts that are of great importance to wizarding people in this country."

Armand glowered into his cup. "This is a pattern of defiance," he finally said. "The boy’s mother, and now the boy."

"That is very true, but I think it would be a grave mistake to call for his punishment."

Armand considered further. "I need to do something to assert my authority. Perhaps I should amend the law to state that no Mudbloods may ever attend Hogwarts under any circumstances."

"That would also incite an uprising, I fear. Apparently the Granger Mudblood is very intelligent and has friends at Hogwarts who are tied to Godric’s Hollow. Besides, if she were expelled from school, Lady Riddle would simply marry her to her son at once. Whether we like it or not, she is part of the magical aristocracy now."

"What do you suggest, then?" Armand snarled.

Abraxas considered. "I suggest reducing their power through other means. We need to put pressure on Caractacus Burke to marry Lady Riddle."

Armand thought about that, nodding. "Yes. I could order him—"

Abraxas closed his eyes. He hated to think it, but he was growing increasingly convinced that his father’s frequent doses of "tonic" were damaging his mind. "Father, the idea is to create a true ally. He is currently loyal to Lord Black, not specifically to us."

"You think that Lord Black intends to usurp us?"

"No!" Abraxas exclaimed. "I mean that Burke regards himself as a vassal of Lord Black. He is related to the Black family, not us. He needs a reason to want to marry Lady Riddle. Right now, he sees it, correctly, as giving up being master of his own house to be a powerless consort."

Armand thought about it. "So I could institute a male primacy law. The Muggles have one such," he said with a scowl, "but in this case, it would be to achieve an objective for wizarding blood purity. Their children would be pureblood."

Abraxas nodded. "It would need to be a law that applied only to future marriages, of course, since there are several fiefs that are held by witches who are our allies."

Armand agreed and took a final sip of his wine, draining the goblet. "Yes. That is what I will do, then."

"Do make sure that it isn’t written in a way that would make Lord Thomas the Baron of Hangleton immediately, instead of his mother’s husband."

"Yes," Armand agreed. He turned to Dobby, who had not left the room. "Here, elf," he commanded. "Wash these."

Dobby the house-elf seethed in anger in the kitchens of Malfoy Manor. He hated his masters, and every time he did what he was about to do, he had to punish himself for it—but it would be worth it someday, he hoped.

He was also pleased that Lord Abraxas believed that the evil potion his father drank was causing his mind to become addled. In truth, Dobby was slipping other potions into Lord Malfoy’s cups at dinner, and if either of his masters ever guessed that and demanded to know, he would have no choice but to confess the truth. Such was the wicked magic of a house-elf’s enslavement. He would be killed—but still, even death was better than this.

Still, if there was a chance that Dobby’s activities could result in change, then he was willing to risk death. Taking a deep breath, he Disapparated to the one place that both he and his friend Kreacher were allowed to visit, the house of Lucius Malfoy—and Narcissa Black Malfoy.

Kreacher, the house-elf of Lord Regulus Black, was awaiting him in the basement of Lord Lucius’s castle in Godric’s Hollow. The wizened old elf croaked his greeting as the spry young Dobby appeared to give his report.

Tom sat next to Hermione in the common room, reading with her. His snake Dunlaith was coiled around one wrist, and Hermione’s cat Crookshanks purred behind the book that she was holding upright to read. It was a pleasant, domestic scene, Tom thought with satisfaction. He rather desired Hermione right now, but they would need to wait until after dinner.

"Do you own any robes with knotwork?" he asked in a low voice, inaudible to anyone else.

Hermione glanced at him. "No."

"You should. You are half English, which means that you’re almost certainly part Celt. I can order some made for you. They would be ready by Yule or Christmas."

"Tom," she said quietly, "you really need to be careful."

He sighed. "I am very careful. Have you seen any retaliation? I am sure that Malfoy wrote to his disgusting family about it, but they have not amended their law. I’m quite certain it is because they realize what kind of outrage there would be among their subjects if they tried to destroy everything containing Celtic imagery." He snarled the word "subjects" with distaste.

"They will not just give up, though. They know that if you continue to wear Celtic designs openly, you will be considered the "victor.’ They must be planning something else."

Tom considered that. "They likely are," he admitted, "but we don’t know what it may be. In the meantime, you need to join me in this. And"—he leaned over, whispering in her ear—"I want to see you wearing these designs." His voice was low and sultry.

Hermione flushed faintly. That was certainly a persuasive argument.

After dinner, they escaped to their private room, both of them eager for each other. Hermione slipped out of her robes quickly, but not quite quickly enough for him. He reached for her waist, her underdress hanging loosely on her, and divested her of the garment with a flourish. She clung to him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, as he lowered her to the floor and began to plant kisses up and down her torso.

"I want you," he growled against the side of her neck.

Her eyelids fluttered closed at these words. A heated breath escaped her. "Then take me," she said.

She was very certain that he was going to, but instead he hesitated for a moment. "There is something...."

"What is it?" At that moment she would do anything he asked if he would give her the relief she sought.

He paused again. "I want you to call me "my lord.’"

Her brown eyes widened. "Tom—"