Chapter Text
“Beautiful logo,” said Serpens.
“Thank you,” said Tom.
“I wondered where the Riddle wealth came from.”
“Your interest in my business is flattering.”
“I made some inquiries, and found virtually no record of the Riddles dealing in potion ingredients at all. I found some large purchases of ingredients and equipment charged to your account two years ago, but nothing since, and no selling.”
“Hm.”
“So it would seem,” said Serpens, “that the mystery of this recent change in werewolf behavior is solved.”
The tentacles in the logo seemed to writhe before Tom’s eyes. “Is it?”
“Well, we know that werewolves don’t usually behave the way they’ve been behaving as of late, and there has been much speculation about what could have caused this sudden change. The theory that a Dark wizard has been subjecting them to the Imperius curse in order to position them near particular targets just before the full moon makes a lot of sense. And now that a wizard appears who is in the habit of Imperioing—”
“Stop,” laughed Tom. “You’re on the wrong track. The werewolves I purchased have attacked no one. I made sure of that. I bought them for a potioneer.”
“That’s what Pucey claimed, but what potion requires such a large supply of Dark creature flesh?”
“They’re not ingredients; that’s just the story I told Pucey. I have a different use for them, but it’s not the one you think. The Riddles are investors. One of our investments is with a potioneer who needs werewolf test subjects to drink her experimental potions. I’d appreciate you not spreading this information, as I don’t want other potioneers stealing her ideas and giving her competition.”
“You mean you’re in trade?” interrupted a portrait in a regency gown and horrified contempt.
Tom addressed the portrait of the regency witch. “Yes.”
“No!” cried the portrait of Lucius, setting down his lute to stand in outrage, his white ruff quivering as he addressed Serpens. “He’s lying! He must be a Dark lord!“
Tom addressed Lucius. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
“I knew it!” crowed the portrait of Brutus, his wig’s curls bouncing as he chortled. “There can’t be a halfblood Dark lord. Don’t be absurd.”
“Can’t you sense the ambition here?” demanded Lucius. “He is most certainly the one.” He bowed to Tom. “My lord, feel free to share your plans with my descendant, for I assure you, we portraits have raised every generation of Malfoys properly: to seek out and serve every generation’s Dark lord. There’s no better right hand man than a Malfoy.”
“I’m sorry,” Tom told Lucius. “I am but a humble businessman, with no more ambition than to provide comforts for my family. Were I a Dark lord in need of a right hand man, of course Serpens would be my first choice, but alas, I am not.”
Most of the portraits huffed in scorn and turned their backs on Tom to retreat into the backgrounds of their paintings, or out of their frames entirely, although Brutus and Lucius stayed.
“Pay up, Lucius,” said Brutus.
Lucius reached into his purse and withdrew a coin, which he held out past the frame of his painting to reach into Brutus’s painting.
Brutus snatched the coin from Lucius’s hand with a gloating laugh, and left his painting.
Now only Lucius remained. He sat to listlessly pluck his lute with a white peacock feather.
Serpens turned away from the paintings to look at Tom. “Sorry about that.”
“I don’t mind at all,” laughed Tom, because Serpens probably wasn’t apologizing for the quality of his ancestor’s music, which was unforgivable.
“It’s an intriguing idea, Imperioing werewolves to drink experimental potions,” said Serpens. “I can see the potential profit in that. With the recent attacks, there are a lot of people desperate for a cure.”
“People?” repeated Tom.
“Well, werewolves, but newly turned werewolves. So, not people technically, but… And their families. They’d want to turn the werewolves human again, if that were possible. Do any of them survive?” Serpens inquired in idle curiosity. “The werewolves you’ve Imperiused to drink these experimental potions?”
“Yes. They’ve all survived, for over two years now.”
“Oh! In that case, I’d think you could save money by calling for volunteers.”
“That would be convenient,” said Tom, “but the Werewolf Capture Unit has made it impossible. I can’t put out a call for werewolves and expect any to show up. They’d assume I’m a bounty hunter. Thus I was forced to buy my werewolves from the Werewolf Capture Unit at great expense, although I’d much rather have cut out the middleman. Now of course that source has dried up, but I have a pretty big stockpile of werewolves by now.”
“That’s fortunate. How close is your potioneer to a cure?”
“She’s not actually working on a cure,” admitted Tom, “just a treatment to relieve the worst symptom. It’s called the Wolfsbane potion. Werewolves under its influence physically transform as usual at full moons, but keep their human minds even in their wolf bodies. They have no drive to bite humans.”
Serpens mulled this over. “You Imperius them to drink this?”
“No, actually. I Imperiused them to get them out of the Werewolf Capture Unit fortress, if they didn’t already know me to go along with me willingly. Then I’d drop the curse and explain the potion to them, and they’d drink it of their own free will. They beg for more the next month, since the full moon is so much more endurable with this potion than without it.”
“Do you give it to them?”
“They buy it, if they can afford it. They value it highly. It enables them to lead nearly normal lives, turning their curse into more of an inconvenience. Their freedom from the urge to bite not only means they’re no danger to others, but they’re also no danger to themselves when they’re locked up without human victims as outlets for their cravings. You see, they usually bite themselves—”
“I’ve read Lou Garou,” interrupted Serpens.
Tom nodded. “So you understand. But under the influence of my potion, they don’t accumulate new Dark injuries every month, so they have the potential to live nearly normal lifespans.”
“How much do you sell this potion for?”
“That’s the frustrating part. I used to sell it for a decent price, but these recent crackdowns on werewolves, all the checkpoints and wards and alarms, have made it impossible for my customers to go to work as usual, so they can no longer afford my potion.”
“This is sounding like it’s past the experimental stage. You started off talking about test subjects and now you’re speaking of customers.”
“Well, yes. I wasn’t sure how you’d receive this information, but you seemed open to the idea of werewolves being people, so I deemed you receptive to the truth, and dropped the Occlumency I was using to resist the Veritaserum you added to my tea.”
Lucius’s lute playing became even worse, which Tom wouldn’t have believed possible.
Tom ignored the noise and continued. “You insult me, trying the same trick twice.” He gave Serpens a wry smile and shook his head. “Tsk tsk. If we weren’t such good friends, I’d take offense.”
“But… If you’re an Occlumens, why—”
“—did I give the impression that I wasn’t at the Drones Club? Fat lot of good Occlumency does if people know I can do it. You’d never have believed my story about your wife wanting to kill your son had you known I was capable of lying at the time. I hope you appreciate the trouble I went to to save your heir. Seeming to involuntarily reveal an embarrassing anecdote made my next words believable. Of course, I in turn appreciate your help regarding the other information I shared. On the subject of us helping each other, could I please have your word that you won’t spread the information that I’m an Occlumens? It seems rude to ask you to Obliviate yourself, and here I am without the use of my wand.” Tom spread his hands to emphasize their emptiness.
Lucius had given up all pretense of lute-playing by now, and was gazing at Tom with adoration. Although unsettling, this was an improvement, as he did it silently.
Serpens got up and paced. “You manipulated me into killing your brother-in-law for you.”
“‘Manipulated’ is such a—”
“That’s bloody brilliant, Tom. Have no concern that I’ll spread any information you don’t want known. I’d much rather have you as a friend than an enemy.”
“Thank you. The feeling is mutual.” Tom picked up the business card and returned it to his wallet.
Serpens sat. “With your potion relieving werewolves of their urge to bite people, one wonders why so many werewolves have been biting people recently.”
“Those are different werewolves,” said Tom emphatically. “Not my customers, but Dark wizards who happen to be werewolves, who bit my customers.”
“Convenient for you that they increased your customer base so much,” observed Serpens.
“Not at all,” said Tom. “Their attacks motivated the Ministry to institute all these new anti-werewolf policies, which impoverished my customers, so they can no longer pay for my product.” He let his annoyance into his voice. “My Wolfsbane business has been in the red since these new policies took effect.”
“Yet you still bought werewolves from the Werewolf Capture Unit, back when they were willing to sell them.”
Tom shrugged. “My customers can’t afford to buy my product when they’re unemployed, but at least that’s a temporary condition. They’re even less likely to be able to pay me when they’re dead. I’m holding out hope that the Ministry will end these anti-werewolf policies sometime soon, but…” He sighed. It did seem unlikely. Perhaps Pennyroyal was right.
“How deep in the red are you? I had no idea—”
“The Riddles as a whole are financially sound,” said Tom. “Our other investments are doing well, and can support this project through this challenging period.”
“How much is this project losing? In the last month, say?”
Tom told him.
Serpens blinked a few times. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Would you like to see my records? Come to my office. You’ll see that all the numbers are accounted for.” As Serpens looked a bit nervous, Tom drew his wand and offered it to Serpens, hilt-first. “Feel free to hold on to this, if that would help you feel more comfortable in my house. That seems more expedient that hiring some wardsmith to ensure that your wand works there while mine doesn’t.”
Serpens looked at Tom’s wand, but didn’t take it.
“Or I could go fetch my records if you prefer,” Tom offered. He set his wand on the tea table. “If you want assurance that I’ll return, I’ll leave this here. Back in a jiffy.”
Serpens made no attempt to stop Tom from leaving, nor from returning. Tom set the ledger on the tea table, then reclaimed and sheathed his wand.
“Thank you.” Serpens opened and read the ledger.
Tom looked around at the mostly empty paintings. Lucius looked away when he noticed Tom looking at him, redirecting his gaze to his lute. He tuned it, or at least turned the pegs.
Serpens eventually spoke. “This outlay must be a hardship to your family.”
“Not at all. It’s an embarrassment to me, personally, as it’s a project I chose and have full control of, and it’s not doing nearly as well as my father’s investments, but he doesn’t mind supporting it. In fact I think he enjoys gloating that his investments are superior to mine. He considers the cost a small price to pay for his entertainment. I do hope to eventually turn the tables on him, of course.”
Serpens thought some more. “I confess I’m still having some trouble understanding why werewolf behavior has changed so drastically in the last few months. Attacking en masse like this…”
“I can explain that as well.” Tom sighed. Telling the truth was so dull, yet there were times when it really was the best option. “A werewolf by the name of Ralph Woolsey was relying on society’s prejudice against werewolves to drive werewolves out of society and into his pack, for lack of better options. When he noticed my efforts to better integrate werewolves into society, he recognized this as a threat to his power. He’s determined to prove that werewolves are dangerous, to maintain society’s prejudice, thus his own power.”
“So his werewolves were the ones who attacked Hogsmeade, and muggle London, and Little Hangleton, and that muggle potioneer in Oxford?”
“Exactly.”
“The international Statute-keepers did a good job in Oxford,” observed Serpens. “Woolsey can’t have many followers left.”
Tom nodded. “I hope.”
“I suppose we’ll find out at the next full moon.”
Tom almost took another sip of his tea, but set it down. “If you don’t mind, may I have—”
“Of course. Boshy!” Serpens called.
Pop. “Yes Master?”
“A fresh cup of tea for Mr. Riddle, this time without Veritaserum.”
“Yes Master.” Pop.
“No, Tommy,” said Tom affectionately yet again.
Tommy let the levitating 1-pound dumbbell fall. “But, up!” he objected.
“Yes, you did lift it up, but the purpose of calisthenics is to exercise one’s muscles, not one’s magic,” Tom explained. “I got this set just for you, so you can work on proper form, like so. See?” Tom demonstrated a bicep curl with his own dumbbell.
“That’s impressive magic, though,” said Mark unhelpfully. “Wandless and wordless, at his age! I don’t think he can even pronounce Wingardium leviosa, but he doesn’t need to.”
Tom sighed. “Tommy is free to exercise his magic another time. On this beautiful spring day, we are exercising our bodies.”
“It’s a bit chilly, actually,” said Mark.
“That means you aren’t exercising hard enough,” explained Tom.
Mark took Tom’s advice, and soon the roses blooming in his cheeks proved that he had overpowered the chill with healthful exertion.
Tommy followed their examples, imitating their Müller System and weightlifting exercises in his own way, which was so adorable Tom felt his heart would burst. Eventually Tom had to swoop Tommy up into his arms, using him as a giggling weight to add extra challenge to his exercises.
Mark wanted a turn with that weight too. Tommy kept demanding “More up!” so Mark and Tom obliged. Their laughter filled the back garden.
Tom eventually felt that this was enough exercise, so he lay on the blanket he’d spread on the grass to bask in the sun.
Tommy, who seemed to be made entirely of knees and elbows, flopped on top of him.
“Ow,” said Tom mildly.
Tommy happily hissed something.
At Tom’s quizzical look at Mark, Mark interpreted, “He says you’re like a warm rock. He meant that as a compliment.”
“I took it as such,” said Tom. “Now Tommy, snakes don’t have such hard knees.” He attempted to reposition Tommy.
Tommy squirmed in delight.
“If you keep Tommy occupied, I’m safe,” said Mark, lying on the blanket next to Tom. He stretched in the sun. “I should probably go in and shower,” he said, making no move to get up. “It turned out to be a warm day after all.”
“We can relax in the sun for a bit longer,” said Tom, protecting his neck from a sudden jab from Tommy’s elbow. “Oh, and I have something to tell you. Starting the first of April, I expect that the last of my muggle tenants will be out of Little Hangleton. We’ve arranged for new tenants to move in. They will be witches and wizards, not muggles, so I’m sorry, but Little Hangleton will become off-limits to you, lest you be recognized by someone who used to know Marius Black.”
Mark, eyes widened in alarm, sat up and looked down at Tom. “Is it safe? After what happened to the previous tenants—”
“I have taken all appropriate precautions,” said Tom. “You have no cause for worry.”
“Right, of course,” said Mark. “It must be absolutely werewolf-proof by now, like any other wizarding neighborhood. Good. Werewolves are horrible. I hope the Werewolf Capture Unit hunts them to extinction soon, as they’ve promised.”
Tommy laughed, jabbing a knee into Tom’s belly, and hissed something at Mark.
Tom repositioned him. “What’s so funny, Tommy?” He sent another quizzical look at Mark.
“Sometimes I don’t understand what he says,” said Mark. “I’m not really a parselmouth.” He hissed something at Tommy, who nodded.
“You have more aptitude for it than I,” said Tom. “Anyway, the Werewolf Capture Unit’s previous performances do not inspire confidence, but I’ll do what I can to compensate for their flaws and keep my tenants safe. My point is, Little Hangleton will soon be off-limits to you, unfortunately. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
Mark shrugged “I never spent much time there, just passed through on my way to more interesting places, but how will I get to school or friends’ houses or anywhere?”
“There’s a back way,” said Tom. “It’s muddy and inconvenient, a track alongside some fields, but needs must. I’ve asked Dobby to maintain it in a more passable state for you.”
“You mean the path with the blackberries?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Other kids will want to pick the blackberries,” said Mark skeptically.
“In your previous life as Marius Black, did the children of your acquaintance pick blackberries?” asked Tom.
Mark thought. “I didn’t really know that many kids, not nearly as many as I know now. My brothers and sisters wouldn’t be moving into Little Hangleton of course, and I can’t picture them picking blackberries anyway. I bet Corvus would, but he’s at Hogwarts, and in Malfoy Manor on school holidays. Really any kid my age or older would be at Hogwarts most of the year.” Except those who would set off the school’s Dark creature detectors, but the confidentiality that Tom had promised to his customers prevented him from mentioning them. “Some adults might recognize me, but my family didn’t move in the same circles as the sorts who’d rent those little houses, no offense, and I look different now, so I probably don’t have much to worry about.”
“Still, for maximum safety, I advise avoiding the place,” said Tom.
Mark nodded. “All right. If that’s all, I think I’ll shower now. I’m starting to feel cold again.”
Fiona knocked on the door of Tom’s office.
“Enter.”
She did, and made her perfunctory curtsy. “An invisible person is at the front door for you sir. Are you at home?”
“An invisible person?”
“Yes sir.”
“I suppose this person didn’t give a name.”
“Indeed sir. I believe he may be a servant like Dobby, sir.”
“Oh! Thank you, Fiona. Send him up.”
“Yes sir.”
When she was gone, Tom called “Dobby.”
Pop. “Yes Master?”
“A disillusioned elf is on his way to my office. Stay here and observe. Let me know if you recognize him.”
“Yes Master.” Dobby busied himself cleaning and polishing Athena’s cage, which she tolerated.
Fiona opened the door to let in a vague shimmer. “Your visitor, Mr. Riddle.”
“Thank you, Fiona.”
She left.
“Welcome to the Riddle House,” said Tom. “What can I do for you?”
A creaky voice spoke. “This elf wishes to know if it’s true that Mr. Riddle has a potion that helps werewolves stay more human.”
“Yes,” said Tom. “It’s called the Wolfsbane potion.”
“This elf wishes to know more about it.”
Tom described it thoroughly: the necessity to take it seven days before the full moon, its unfortunate taste, and its effects.
“How much does it cost?” asked the elf.
The obvious answer was a hundred galleons a month, for surely a werewolf who could afford an elf could afford that, but should this pampered werewolf eventually compare notes with Tom’s other customers, the price discrepancy would lead to questions. “The first month’s doses are free.”
“And how much are later months’ doses?” asked the elf.
“I charge market price,” said Tom. “With the werewolf situation so volatile, it can vary.”
“How can this elf obtain this potion?”
“My other customers pick up their potion from a dispensary accessible only to werewolves, not to humans without lycanthropy, nor to elves.”
“This elf must pick up the potion himself! Master must not go out!”
Tom nodded his acquiescence. “Then you may pick up your master’s potion here in my office, starting with the first dose the seventeenth of April for the full moon on the twenty-third.”
“This elf will return then.” Pop. The shimmer was gone.
Tom turned to Dobby, and didn’t even have to ask before being told, “That elf’s name is Kreacher. Kreacher is owned by the Black family.”
“I have amulets for everyone!” announced Eric excitedly.
“That’s the third item on the agenda,” said Pennyroyal. “And we can’t even start the meeting until everyone gets here.”
Tom looked at his pocket watch. “Brownwing should be here any minute.” He should have been here ten minutes ago.
Hermione opened her mirror. “Brownwing.” She looked at the mirror in annoyance, then worry. She snapped it closed. “Who saw Brownwing last?” she asked the group.
“He picked up his last dose of Wolfsbane from the dispensary the morning before March’s full moon as usual,” said Daisy.
“Did anyone see him after that?” asked Hermione.
No one had. Hermione’s worried expression spread around the room.
“If he were in trouble, he’d have used his feather Portkey,” said Pennyroyal.
“Unless he forgot it,” said Briar.
“The owl delivering the message announcing this meeting didn’t have a problem,” reported Pennyroyal. “People were supposed to contact me if they had a scheduling conflict, and he didn’t.”
“He could have been captured after he picked up his last dose of Wolfsbane in March and we wouldn’t even know,” said Hermione.
“If the Werewolf Capture Unit caught him, they’d have offered to sell him to me,” said Tom. “But wait, no, the day before March’s full moon, they didn’t call me at all. That must have been the day the international Statute-keepers took over their operations. It would have been awkward for Pucey to try selling a werewolf right then.”
“He wouldn’t have been captured, with his amulet making him invisible to Dark creature detectors,” said Pennyroyal. “If it worked,” she added with a suspicious look at Eric.
“It withstood every test I could think of!” objected Eric.
“Hm,” said Pennyroyal, who clearly didn’t think much of that.
“I’ll believe that Brownwing forgot about this meeting before I’ll believe Eric made an amulet that didn’t work,” said Bramble.
“Brownwing could have forgotten his amulet as easily as he’d forget a meeting,” said Briar.
“Assuming he wore the amulet, and it worked,” said Ignis, “he wouldn’t have noticed someone from Woolsey’s pack sneaking up on him.”
“But Woolsey’s pack were all at Oxford,” said Daisy, “and we all knew to stay away from Oxford.”
“I’m sure they weren’t all at Oxford,” said Pennyroyal. “Woolsey would have sent just fighters, not support staff.”
“We don’t know what time they got to Oxford,” said Harrier, “or where they were before.”
“I actually didn’t get through to Brownwing with the warning,” admitted Tom. “He didn’t answer my mirror-call.”
“Expecto Patronum,” cast Hermione, because apparently this problem could be solved by a glowing silver otter. “Brownwing, do you need help?”
The otter continued to swim in playful loops through the air.
“Go on, deliver the message,” ordered Hermione.
The otter circled Hermione’s head, illuminating her increasingly worried expression with shifting silver light.
“He’s dead,” Hermione declared. “Or…” She looked to Ignis. “If he never considered ‘Brownwing’ to be his name, it wouldn’t be sufficient to guide my patronus. What’s his real name?”
“Uh,” said Ignis.
“Never mind his privacy, the man’s life is at stake!” said Hermione.
“I know!” cried Ignis. “But he never told me his real name. I told him that was fine; his codename was all I needed.”
Hermione opened her mirror and called “Brownwing” again, with the same unsatisfying results. She aimed her wand at the mirror. “Bombarda Brownwing Speculum,” she cast. Then she snapped her mirror closed and reached into her beaded bag. “Accio Portkey record book.” She drew forth a tattered book, which she opened to peel a bit of black fluff off a rectangle labeled “Brownwing.” She tossed the fluff into the air and cast “Incendio” at it.
The unpleasant smell of burnt feather overwhelmed the fragrance of the bouquet of hyacinths on the table.
“Now we don’t have to worry about Woolsey Portkeying into your office,” Hermione assured Tom. Then she turned to Eric. “Activate whatever remote destruct feature you built into that amulet,” she ordered.
“Er,” said Eric.
“You did include a remote destruct feature, right?” said Hermione. “Otherwise any werewolf who gets their hands on that amulet can sneak past any Dark-creature detectors, even the ones I installed on this house!”
Eric was incapable of speech.
Tom cleared his throat. “The most likely explanation is that Brownwing forgot about this meeting. He may still show up late, but let’s start without him. The first item on the planned agenda: any predictions for April twenty-third’s full moon?” Tom looked around.
“Predictions?” repeated Briar.
“For where Woolsey’s pack might attack next,” explained Tom.
“He’d have to be a real idiot to attack anywhere,” said Harrier.
“The international Statute-keepers have gone,” said Pennyroyal. “That Grindelwald business.”
“So Woolsey might feel emboldened,” said Tom. “The Werewolf Capture Unit is in disarray, with corrupt officials out and no indication of who will replace them. He might consider this an ideal time to attack.”
“Attack with what, though?” asked Harrier. “He sent so many of his people to their deaths last month, he can’t have many left. I mean, maybe he’s recruited a few more werewolves who are no longer welcome in human areas, but no one with any sense would think it’s a good idea to join Woolsey, considering what happens to his followers. It’s much safer to move into Little Hangleton.” She thought. “So that’s where he’ll attack: Little Hangleton again. He’ll attack his fellow werewolves just out of spite, because he doesn’t want us to have any safer place to live than in his pack.”
That target would annoy Tom as well, now that the Riddles were collecting rents from the village again. “That seems likely. So how can we protect werewolves from werewolves?”
“Clumsy werewolves from agile ones,” added Harrier.
“We could put the whole village under a Fidelius charm,” suggested Hermione.
“A what?” asked Harrier, making Tom want to give her a raise.
“Conceal a secret, like the existence of the village, inside a human soul,” explained Hermione. “Only the secret-keeper can reveal the secret.”
“What secret do you want to conceal, exactly?” asked Eric at the same time that Harrier said, “Tom should be secret keeper.”
Hermione looked worried, well, more worried than usual, so Tom felt worried as well, although of course he wasn’t going to wrinkle his brow over it. Did a person need magic to become a secret keeper? Hermione’s glance at him implied that, so Tom would relieve her of this stress.
“I cannot be secret keeper,” he declared. Harrier seemed about to argue with him, so he continued. “The secret keeper must be a werewolf.”
“But Hermione said we need a human soul,” argued Harrier.
“Which you all have,” said Tom. “Werewolves are human. I know what the Ministry says about this, but they’re wrong.” He turned to Hermione. “Does this spell require that the secret keeper not be suffering from dragonpox or spattergroit or the like?”
“No,” said Hermione.
“Well then. I’m afraid my customers have lost some anonymity recently, as I know that the ones who’ve moved into the Riddle properties in Little Hangleton are werewolves, or at least family members of werewolves, but I will not ask them to place further trust in me when they could instead trust a fellow werewolf, Ignis for example.”
“I…” Ignis gulped. “I am human.” He waited for the surprised gasps and skeptical snorts to die down. “A human with lycanthropy is still human,” he continued. “I have a human soul. I can do this. Well, if someone teaches me how to cast a Fidelius charm.” He looked to Hermione.
She nodded. “Sure. And I agree with Tom that you’re the right man for the job.”
“Thank you,” said Ignis. “What should the secret be, exactly?”
“Hermione said it could conceal the existence of a whole village,” said Daisy, “so ‘Little Hangleton exists’ would be the secret, right?”
“That would be awkward,” said Tom, “as the Riddle house is in Little Hangleton, so then it wouldn’t be anywhere. How would we get our post delivered?” Also, how would Mark know to take the long way around to avoid the village if he didn’t know it existed? He’d unknowingly bicycle right through the middle of it on his way to school, in view of a whole village full of people, some of whom might recognize him.
“And the people moving in, they want Floo connections and such,” said Ignis. “I mean, if they wanted to be cut off from civilization they’d live as ferals in the wilderness.” He thought. “A lot of these people are used to living in Hogsmeade, which has every convenience a wizard could want. They’re already unhappy with the idea that they have to conceal their magic from muggles passing through. Are you sure a muggle-repelling charm—”
“We’re jumping ahead to the second item on the agenda, settling the new tenants into Little Hangleton,” said Tom, “but I suppose we can discuss them both at once. The Riddle family’s muggle business associates must be able to pass through to get to the Riddle House. They must see a village that appears as muggle as it was before, even if they stop in for a drink at the pub. We don’t want any trouble about the Statute of Secrecy. Ignis, you must emphasize this point to the new tenants. From the muggle point of view, our old muggle tenants died, and new muggle tenants moved in, yet the nature of the village is unchanged. The last time I drove through, I saw a witch changing the sign on the general store to read ‘Magical General Store.’ The addition of the word ‘Magical’ is illegal and unnecessary,” and, perhaps most importantly, tacky. “Ignis, rather than confront the offending party myself, I leave you to tell her to remove the word ‘Magical’ from her sign, as I leave you in charge of all interactions with the Little Hangletonians, to preserve confidentiality.”
Ignis sighed. “She won’t be happy about that.”
“She’ll be even less happy if the authorities come snooping around,” said Tom.
“What about muggle-specific illusions like the ones around Hogwarts, that make it look like the ruins of an old castle, ready to collapse on any fool who dares to explore them?” suggested Bramble.
“The problem with that,” said Tom, “is that this is Riddle property we’re talking about. We can’t have such blatant disrepair on view to muggle visitors. That would reflect poorly on my family.”
Ignis sighed. “All right, so we can’t conceal the whole village from all people or even all muggles. What can we do, then?”
“The secret needs to be smaller,” said Tom, “not to slight the capacity of your soul, but for the sake of efficiency, and to reduce complications.”
“How about just ‘Werewolves live in Little Hangleton’?” asked Daisy.
This suggestion was greeted with assent by all.
“Should have thought of that for Hogsmeade,” said Bramble.
“Would have saved a lot of protection money,” added Briar.
“If Ignis is secret-keeper, what happens if he dies?” asked Harrier, who deserved a raise and her own spacious office with her name in gold on the door. “I mean, aside from us all being sad of course.”
“Then everyone he told the secret to becomes a keeper of the same secret, and can tell anyone they want,” said Hermione. “So of course it’s much less secret then.”
“So anyone wanting to steal the secret could first convince Ignis to tell it to them, then kill him,” said Tom. “Ignis just volunteered to wear a target on his back. If some member of Woolsey’s pack infiltrates Little Hangleton, convincing Ignis he’s just another one of my customers in order to get the secret, he could kill Ignis immediately afterwards and then lead in an army of whatever fighters Woolsey has left.” Tom considered that. Given the supreme importance of discernment as required trait of a secret-keeper, the job shouldn’t go to a Gryffindor. Of course, considering the danger, no one with the required intelligence would volunteer for it, so Gryffindors were, alas, the only option.
“I… I don’t care,” said Ignis. “I said I’ll do it, so I will.” Typical.
“Maybe Woolsey’s dead,” said Pennyroyal. “We might be worrying over nothing.”
“Seems rather anticlimactic,” said Briar.
“This isn’t a novel,” said Bramble.
“It would be right convenient if the international Statute-keepers killed him,” said Ignis. “Saved us the trouble.”
“I would have liked to have a chance at him myself,” grumbled Harrier.
“People have thought that Dark lords were dead before,” said Hermione, “and been proven wrong.”
“I wouldn’t call him a Dark lord,” said Pennyroyal. “I mean, he was evil, yes, but he was really just a feral werewolf. It’s right for him to have been exterminated like the vermin he was. No glory, no infamy, just put down like a common stray dog.”
There was general agreement to this sentiment, although Hermione didn’t allow herself to celebrate with the others.
“So, we have a potential target and a protection plan for it,” said Tom. “And we’ve already discussed Little Hangleton and the Statute of Secrecy, so on to the next item on the agenda: Eric has amulets to distribute to all of you.”
“Er,” said Eric. “Actually they’re not ready yet. I’ll get them to everyone tomorrow.”
The other werewolves assured Eric that there was no rush.