The Arithmancer's Apprentice

The Arithmancer’s Apprentice
by Alec Dossetor and Teri Krenek

Chapter One

The first time Tom Riddle saw Mountwarlock Park, the Leicestershire seat of the Earls of Mountwarlock, he was already aware of much of its history. He had come down from Scotland early that morning with a party of his fellow students from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, on what had come to be an annual tour of the house – a privilege normally granted to third years. From the village across the river he could see the house in all its glory: a quarter mile of roofs and towers, and the walls of gardens to either side, silhouetted against the sky. Above the chimneys, the trees of the park rose up into wood-haunted hills.

The Encyclopaedia of Magic (seventh edition) from which Tom had read the night before devoted a whole chapter to the Earls of Mountwarlock, describing their home as "the last of our ancient magical 'immunities'” – the only one to survive in the British Isles, if he recalled correctly. “It is the only place still left which is barred to officials from the Ministry of Magic, without the express permit of the owner. This is largely because of the uneasy deference with which the Earl is still regarded, and the depth and complexity of the legendary spells and magical beasts which guard the estate.”

The sight of the house almost took his breath away. It had snowed the night before, and the countless roofs and chimneys that stretched across the far side of the river looked to him like a small town, and dwarfed the village on the hither shore. After several hours on the Hogwarts Express, the party had been set down at the station of Steeple Warlock, and as the carriages took them over the brow of the hill to the valley beyond, the children rose from their seats and craned their necks at the window panes, staring at the faery-tale scene that was laid out before them.

The house was larger than Hogwarts castle. Not as tall, perhaps, but it sprawled across the landscape: battlements and tiled roofs and hundreds of ornamental gables, its fifty-two towers and thirty courtyards seemingly added on in haphazard fashion, but somehow shaped into a harmonious whole.

“There isn't any snow in the gardens, is there?" said Dominic Garrick in an oddly hushed voice, and Tom too marvelled at the fact that the snow seemed to adorn only the roof of the house, and stopped at some of the garden walls. Even his fellow Slytherin, a normally boisterous boy, was somewhat awestruck by the scene, and Tom himself was reminded of his first viewing of Hogwarts castle, the nervous anticipation and wonder as the many turrets had loomed into sight from his vantage point in the boat on the lake: but this time, his nervousness had nothing to do with the typical eagerness of a young first year, amazed at being part of the magical world…

A few seats to the front of them sat Rubeus Hagrid, the only first year boy to come on the tour (through a special dispensation, probably arranged with the Headmaster by Professor Dumbledore). Further up were the two professors that were here to look after the needs of the students: one was a short blonde witch whom Tom knew – in name only – as Professor Olga Tempera; the other was Professor Abbacus Gryme, Tom’s Arithmancy master, who caught the boy’s eye across the heads of the other children. He gave a brief half-smile, cool and mysterious, and Tom wondered, not for the first time, what Professor Gryme really wanted from him.

It was true that, in Arithmancy, Tom had found something which really challenged him; but more importantly, he had found a professor who seemed to have no scruples at all about certain… details, and methods of magic that he would otherwise never have learned at school. Of course, Gryme did not teach such topics in class, but for an exceptional student like Tom, he had been more than willing to spare time after lessons, and after the evening dinner as well, to further Tom’s knowledge. Sometimes he branched out into other subjects... Defence Against the Dark Arts, even dabbling in Potions, although the latter was a rarity. In the first few months of Tom’s third year at school, Gryme had become his mentor. But still, it had come as a surprise to Tom when his professor had asked him to perform a task for him – a simple one, he was assured – while visiting Mountwarlock Park.

Tom still did not know what his task would be, but he was sure it must be a test of some sort, and he was equally sure that he would pass. He assumed that Gryme would divulge the information soon, but he doubted there was a way he could do so while in the company of so many others. At least, not until they had left the carriage.

Ahead of him, Rubeus Hagrid turned around in his seat, towering over Tom’s other schoolmates, and beaming. “Tom! Can yeh believe it?”

Tom returned the smile; Garrick scowled, but Tom pointedly ignored the other boy’s unstated but obvious opinion of the gigantic first-year ahead of them. Tom was not immune to the prejudices of his peers - far from it. He had to admit to seeing a certain logic to them, in some cases. However, Hagrid was another matter - a fact that puzzled Tom’s Slytherin friends. “Yes, it does look great, Rubeus,” he answered.

“I can’ wait to see the interestin’ creatures, can yeh? They’ve even got a Laernian Hydra! It’s s’posed to be the last there is. What would I give for one of ‘em!”

Tom shook his head, stealing a glance at Garrick, who rolled his eyes. Hagrid turned round and continued to gaze longingly out the window.

Tom was almost the last off the carriage when it finally stopped, just inside the gate. The thick boots with which he’d trudged through the snow back at Hogwarts seemed out of place against the dry stone flags – though he’d need them, he figured, when they turned in for the night at the village. They were in an enormous courtyard, with many stone buildings on either side and a stream that flowed down the middle, widening as it approached the gate until it formed a narrow lake when it reached the mill just to the left of them. On the far side of the lake was an ancient chapel. Opposite and to the right were the timbered walls of an older house. From the neighing of horses and other strange sounds, somewhere behind there lay the stables.

Quickly, Tom moved to catch up with the others. Garrick was speaking to another fellow Slytherin, a short boy in glasses who frowned as he spoke.

“I don’t know why they let him come – a first year! Dippet would never have made an excuse like that for one of us…”

“Well, you know, Potter,” Garrick answered as he looked out across the lake, to the grey stone walls of what had once been an abbey, looming ominously above the ice. “He’s a Gryffindor; they get special permission.”

“Rubeus didn’t get it because he’s a Gryffindor,” Tom observed quietly. “He got it because his father is ill. Dumbledore wanted to do something for him.”

Garrick snorted. “Right. That’s favouritism, that is.”

The other boy nodded in agreement. “And how do you know all this, anyway, Tom?”

Tom shrugged, thinking of the empty dungeons where he and Hagrid sometimes met. “We talk, sometimes.”

Garrick shook his head. “No Slytherin pride, Tom. And it’s obvious that Hagrid—”

“I think it is obvious, Mr. Garrick, that the reasons behind Mr. Hagrid’s attendance have nothing to do with ‘pride’. Nor are they your concern.” Gryme’s voice was mild, but Garrick obviously picked up on the warning in his tone, and the boy averted his eyes, mumbling something.

“And – I’d like to speak to you, Mr. Riddle.”

With a curious glance in Tom’s direction, Garrick and Potter continued walking with the rest of the group, while Tom hung back with his professor, slowing his pace. He was full of anticipation, but he had no fear of being reprimanded; he knew that Gryme was at last to reveal the true nature of the task he would set him.

He was right. “I suppose you have been wondering precisely what I will ask you to do,” Professor Gryme spoke softly to him.

Tom nodded. The expectation he felt barely showed on his face, but his hand clenched tightly on his wand. After a moment, Gryme continued. “I would like you to retrieve something for me, Tom. You see, some years ago I worked here, as librarian to the late Lord Mountwarlock, and when I left the position and came to Hogwarts, I had to leave an artefact of mine behind: a certain rare and magical object. To be precise, it was a ring.”

“And you want me to find it for you?” Tom was puzzled. Why couldn’t Dr. Gryme simply retrieve it himself? And if it was his, why couldn’t he ask for it? But as far as he knew Dr. Gryme had never lied to him. Was it something he’d prefer people not to know about?

“I do, Tom. It’s a very simple task, but I fear I cannot perform it myself. I suppose, if necessary, I can find a way, but my absence will be noted far sooner than yours.”

“I’ll do it,” Tom said firmly. “Tell me where to look.”

Dr. Gryme nodded, smiling slightly. “I knew you would. Now, when we enter the Vaulted Library – you will recognise it, after the chapel – you will see an alcove, by the closest fireplace, secluded from the rest of the room. You will find a small bookcase there, set in the wall.

“On the topmost shelf, you will find a book called Parseltongue Without Tears. If you pull on it, the door will open to you.”

Tom struggled to keep his face passive. Parseltongue Without Tears? The language of serpents was innate – it could not be learned – and Tom was perhaps the only wizard alive with the very rare gift of being able to speak it. The irony was not lost on him, although it surely was unknown to Gryme. “I see – and where does the doorway lead?”

“It opens onto a spiral stair, which will take you to the upper rooms. On the landing, you will see a door directly to your right, and that door will lead you to my old chambers.”

Tom’s mind was whirling in perplexity as Gryme went on to describe the room, and a curious painting above the hearth.

“That painting is where I chose to conceal the ring, until I was able to come back to the house and retrieve it for myself.” he explained. “To recover it, you need simply to touch your fingers to the oak on the canvas, and use this spell: Libero saeculum.”

Tom nodded again, storing away all these instructions for his use, and questioning why Gryme had hidden the ring in the first place: but this was an inquiry he dared not speak aloud. It was possible, he supposed, to refuse this request, but Professor Gryme’s trust was something beyond value, and to carry on at Hogwarts without it…

“All right. And once I have the ring?”

“The ring will appear in your hand at once, and you must return at once to the library. Further, Tom, if you run into anyone – or if anything is not according to plan – I want you to turn back without delay. I can always retrieve it in some other fashion. There is no need for you to take any risks.

“You are clear about what you must do, Tom?”

“Yes, Professor. I retrieve the ring for you if I can, but at the first sign of trouble I turn and head back.”

“And don't use any spell but the one I asked you to. It might well be noticed in a place like this.”

“I won’t, Professor.”

Dr. Gryme smiled. “Good. I’m sure you will succeed, Tom; it should be an easy task for you.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Tom answered, returning the smile.

“Then I think we should rejoin the others,” Gryme said, quickening his steps. “I’d prefer not to draw too much attention to myself, and it certainly would not do to enter the house when everyone else is waiting inside.

“And by the way, if I were you, I would listen to Professor Tempera, when she delivers her lectures. Many paintings here are unique.”

Tom agreed to do so, and they quickly caught up with the Hogwarts party, who had crossed the bridge and passed into a cloister. Yet it was still some minutes before they reached the great doors. By then, they were in a circular driveway with a high wall round it, and on each side a wrought-iron gate spanned an opening in the wall. One opening looked into a tiny rose garden – with the flowers in bloom as if it were summer. The other gate looked over a wide terrace, with fountains and statues and clipped hedges. Beyond was a lake, its once-green islands covered with snow, and a temple peeping above the trees. On the far side of the lake there were low hills. Tom pushed back his feeling of envy – a useless impulse that would do him no good – and joined the professors at the pillared porch.

The man who awaited them just inside the doors introduced himself as Phantomsby, who stood impassively with the wand of his office in his hand, oblivious to the stares of the Hogwarts crowd. Even Tom looked up at him curiously. Phantomsby was the Earl’s factotum, who held his master’s vote in the Council of Magic – the only werewolf, Tom had read, who had sat there. It was a telling tribute to Mountwarlock’s influence, and to his utter disregard for magical opinion, that the agent of his power in the world could be a werewolf – and that he could get away with it, too.

Olga Tempera came up behind him, her bright green robes rustling.

“Have you done this tour often, Professor?” Tom asked her, as they moved on with the rest of the party. Phantomsby, it now appeared, would lead them as far as the Vaulted Library, where Knowles, the librarian, would take over and lecture them for the rest of the tour.

“Oh, no… It’s Tom, isn’t it? No, I haven’t. Not the main tour, that is – although I bring my own students here when I can. I’m afraid there were fewer than ever, this year... It hasn’t been a lucrative profession for years – not since they learned how to enchant these new photographs – but magical painting was an astonishing craft. It’s a pity so many skills have been lost.”

“But I thought there are still some houses that do it in London.”

She shook her head. “I don’t just mean spells that bring pictures to life... Some portraits were painted with yolk of firebird, for example – on specially enchanted wood, or papyrus – and there were spells for every stage of the work, to give different effects to each kind of painting. Some of the ancient paintings were even enchanted as doorways, but not like the portrait holes at Hogwarts. They could literally be entered, and would lead directly into a different place entirely, acting as a sort of Portkey – although one where you could see where you went. There are supposedly a few of those left here at Mountwarlock, though I’ve never been told which they are. That skill, like so many others, is lost.”

“Why was it lost, though?” Cordelia Gale, a Hufflepuff with sandy hair looked curiously up at her tutor.

“Oh, some of it was jealousy, and spite. There was a lot competition between masters in those days, and they kept the best of their spells secret – even from their apprentices, let alone from anyone else; for some apprentices would take their secrets to another master, or even leave to set up on their own… but I think there must be more to it than that. It’s a time-consuming craft, and very precise, and not many people have the passion now to see it though; there was an inspiration then, that I just can’t see in the very few artists that try it now.”

Cordelia then asked another question, involving something they had discussed in class, about the chants the artist Hieromanci had sung as he painted, and Tom found himself simply gazing about at everything around him. The way to the library was longer than Tom had believed. There was a pillared hall and a winter garden, and a banqueting hall adorned with phoenix feathers and a gilded roof of dragon ivory; there were vaults and stairs and undercrofts, and a gallery filled with strange magical objects.

What is it like to have all this? he mused to himself.

At length they climbed a flight of stairs to a balcony overlooking the chapel, a glorious vision of paintings almost as old as Hogwarts Castle. It was not as large as the Great Hall at school, and the roof was not enchanted to mimic the sky, but rather upheld by a flowering tracery of stone and painted in the most brilliant colours. The paintings were entirely Muggle (there was no movement in the stylised figures) but magically restored to the original splendour. To either side between the arches were low tombs, half in shadow, and laying on top of them the marble figures of departed earls. The room was empty, as far as the rood-screen….

No, it was not entirely empty. No one living knelt there at the moment, but the chapel, he now saw, was filled with ghosts. Ruffs and cassocks and veils and dresses, all transparent, swayed before his astonished eyes. Professor Tempera was in her element, pointing out highlighting techniques within the paintings with her wand, the layers of ever-brighter colours. For a moment Tom was tempted to simply stop and listen to her, remembering what Professor Gryme had said, but now he had other things on his mind.

It was possible for him to refuse Dr. Gryme. Even now it would not be too late. Of course the professor’s faith in him – and trust – might not be quite the same after such a refusal. But Tom had deeper, more personal reasons for needing his mentor’s guidance still: reasons he had kept secret even from Dr. Gryme himself.

When Tom Riddle had first come to Hogwarts, the school’s Sorting Hat had placed him in Slytherin, the House founded a thousand years ago by Salazar Slytherin himself: brilliant, ambitious and not too scrupulous – a champion of pure-blooded wizards. There Tom was well placed to hear talk of its founder, and children whispered in the common room at night legends of secrets that Slytherin had left for his heir. For it was said he would have an heir, an heir who would come to complete his work, to restore the wizarding families to sole possession of their ancient heritage, unblemished by the Muggle-born. How much of this was truth or fancy? No one was able to say for sure – but while Tom the half-blood from a Muggle orphanage was despised from the start by some in his House, he identified all the more with his mother’s heritage. And there were hints he uncovered when he began to research her family, that she might have been descended from Slytherin himself…

It was then he had guessed that he might be that heir.

Any wary doubts of his true lineage were cast aside a mere few months before, when Tom first discovered that he was a Parselmouth, having the very rare gift of being able to speak to serpents, for which Salazar Slytherin was famed. Only Rubeus Hagrid yet knew of it, through that strange meeting in the castle dungeons, but this knowledge had finally given Tom more than surmise and intuition. For him, it was proof. Tom was perhaps Slytherin’s only living descendant: the only one, at least, whose blood ran true.

With Tom’s fervent desire for knowledge, and deep admiration for his great ancestor, it quickly became an obsession for him to uncover what he could of the secrets prepared for him. Yet the school had been searched for generations, and powerful wizards before him had found nothing at all. What might there be that only he could unearth? How much of the legend was even true? So far he had discovered nothing.

Here lay the importance of Dr. Gryme. Tom’s only chance of achieving his legacy was in the years he remained at school, and a third of that time had already gone by. He realised, now, that the answers would not lie in those skills he had learned in the classroom, taught by those very teachers who doubtless had searched in vain for centuries, but in the arcane knowledge he was now receiving from his mentor. Without what he learned from Professor Gryme, would Tom ever gain his heritage, even with all his undoubted brilliance?

Moreover, he respected his professor, and trusted him: he could not imagine Hogwarts without Dr. Gryme, the closest thing to a father that the orphaned Tom had ever known.

With renewed determination, he took one last look at the chapel, and followed the others up the steps. A frail-looking man in spectacles awaited them at the top of the stair.

“Good morning,” he greeted them in a cultured voice. “I am Mr. Knowles. I will show you round the house for the rest of the day.” Phantomsby had disappeared.

Knowles, it seemed, did not waste time. “This way, please,” he said, and led them through a pair of gilded doors, into one of the most glorious rooms Tom had seen in his life.

The library was huge – larger by far than the one at Hogwarts – and every shelf overflowed with books. It was, in fact, exactly the sort of place that Tom would have liked to spend the rest of the day in, perusing the shelves and taking his time, poring over the countless tomes. It was a long room with a vaulted ceiling and wide, delicate windows in the deep alcoves on either hand. Several large fires burned in their hearths, adding a scent of wood smoke to the smell of books, firelight flickering on the ancient volumes. Sofas with embroidered cushions were scattered about the room, and tables of inlaid yew and witchwood were adorned with delicate manuscripts, not to mention marvellous magical objects: ancient-looking astrolabes, occasional foe-glasses with shadowy figures prowling in their midst, a collection of large and obviously antique sneakoscopes (each one disarmed, of course). There were even what could only be genuine chronoscopes and a variety of items which Tom could not even put a name to, all glittering in the faint winter sunlight that fell through the windows to cast delicate shadows over the carpets.

Knowles cleared his throat, and adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose as the students gazed around the room. A certain note of pride crept into his voice as he began: “This, young ladies and gentlemen, is the Vaulted Library. The collection here is exceedingly old, a good deal older than the house, in fact, and has grown to be one of the most remarkable anywhere in the magical world. There are volumes here from Greece and Arabia, scrolls from all across the East, even parchments believed to have been scribed in Atlantis before the flood. Now, the greater part of this is downstairs, in our underground vaults beneath the cloister....”

And so the librarian went on, and on, with a speech that he must have repeated for years. Tom's attention began to wander. With the sheer quantity of rare and magical books in this library, there was sure to be a drawn-out lecture, to which Tom, with his deep desire for knowledge, would normally have been eager to listen; but he now had a great deal more to consider.

It was a simple task his Professor had asked of him. Or, at least it appeared simple to Tom. He would slip upstairs as the librarian spoke to them, and retrieve that precious magical object that Dr. Gryme had left behind in the days when the wizard had worked in the house. If anything was wrong, or unexpected, he must forget his mission and retreat downstairs.

But then, of course, he would have failed. And Tom Riddle did not mean to fail.

Dr. Gryme had been Mountwarlock's librarian for about ten years, until he’d applied for a job at Hogwarts – which Tom understood was more than fifteen years ago. Privately, Tom was beginning to wonder just why the Professor had abandoned a post that must have been everything he'd wished. There were endless books, there was time to study and be waited on by liveried house-elves. Did he really have such a desire to teach? Or did he feel that he somehow lacked freedom? But when was a teacher free at Hogwarts?

Here and there, down the length of the chamber, the bookcases drew back to form deep alcoves, furnished with desks for private study, with a window or a fireplace at the end. In an alcove next to the nearest fireplace, barely to be seen amongst the strange shining objects, was a smaller bookcase, fitted into the wall, just as Dr. Gryme had described. Tom’s heartbeat sped up a little. He glanced over at his tutor, who indeed appeared to be listening wholeheartedly to a lecture he most likely could deliver with far more skill. The Arithmancy professor met his gaze, and gave him just the slightest nod: Yes.

Tom sucked in a breath and backed away from the crowd, hoping fervently that none of them would notice as he slipped away behind the bookcase. He feigned an interest in a small golden astrolabe, but it was hardly worth the effort: none of them, not even the Gryffindors, some of whom, he’d thought, would have loved the chance to tattle on a Slytherin, seemed to be paying him any attention whatsoever. Casually, he wandered in front of the shelves, scanning the titles in growing bemusement: The Decline and Fall of the Goblin Empire; The Road to Despair, by D. Mentor; If Looks Could Kill, by Basil Isk; The Mermaid’s Guide to English Grammar...

This is ridiculous, Tom thought, who would want to look at this? Dipsomania, by Mustafa Swig? But then his eyes fell upon the words he had been searching for, peeling and faded on the spine of a green-coloured book: Parseltongue Without Tears.

With a furtive glance over his shoulder, Tom gripped the book and pulled it out, ever so slightly. The next moment, the entire bookcase swung in (silently, much to Tom’s relief), allowing just enough room to slip inside.

With a brief thought of amusement at the old idea of a secret doorway (it might have been in a Muggle house), he stepped through and closed the door quickly behind him; before him was an old stone staircase that wound up and down in the thickness of the wall, and three small candles lit themselves in a single bracket set in the stone. So this is where Professor Gryme stayed when he lived here, Tom thought. Slowly and quietly, he climbed the steps, half-expecting the door below to open behind him at any minute, and a liveried servant to drag him back down to the others with a public rebuke…

But no one came. The landing at the top of the stairs was furnished like a sitting room, with a carved door on each side, and a mullioned window that overlooked a wide courtyard full of tombstones, where a grove of dark yew trees almost hid the roofs on the other side. The shrubs in the tapestry on the far wall shifted a little, as if in a wind that Tom could not feel.

Hesitantly, he opened the dark oak door to his right, as Gryme had instructed, cringing as it squeaked on its hinges, and stepped inside, amazed.

Did Gryme really live in such comfort as this?

It was the study, and just as Gryme had described it. Dark beams crossed the ceiling, the paint dulled with age, and each of the walls was filled with books – over the doors and under the window – in a tapestry of faded colours. Upholstered chairs and deep sofas spread themselves out on each side of the fireplace, almost hiding the thick green carpet. A fire burned quietly on the hearth (it was apple wood, from the scent of it) throwing out warm tints of light over a lion skin on the floor. Through the window, he could see the trees in courtyard below. Another doorway revealed a bedroom, richly decorated. The bed hangings stirred as if in a breeze, and Tom felt more than ever that he was intruding…

“Excuse me, but who are you? Did you lose your way, perhaps?”

Tom started, and turning slowly, he noticed what he hadn’t seen when he’d come in: in the far corner beyond the hearth, behind a large and ornate desk, sat a tall and dark-haired girl of about his own age, watching him with a puzzled look. And over the fireplace, he now saw, there was a painting, a landscape that showed a castle in a lush green forest, illumined by fading rays of sunlight: the painting which no doubt held the mysterious ring that Professor Gryme had asked Tom to retrieve.

How will I get to it? he thought desperately, And what do I say? I suppose it's no use, now there's someone here.

“Are you a guest?” she prompted, when Tom did not answer immediately.

“Yes, I am,” Tom said. I suppose it is technically true.

“Well, I didn't see you at breakfast, if you were. Did my father grant you permission to come up here, then? These chambers are supposed to be private. He sent me up here so I'd not be disturbed.” There was a pause. “So, who are you? And why are you here?”

“I’m Tom Riddle. I found the hidden doorway, downstairs in the library.” He shrugged. “I wanted to see where the staircase led.”

She frowned. “I see. Well, Tom, unless you want to tutor me in charms, you can go back downstairs now.”

He had not been upstairs for very long, but already he was conscious of the time slipping by. He needed to obtain the ring for Gryme and rejoin the group as quickly as possible, before there was time for anyone there to discover his absence. But Tom could not let himself return empty-handed; he needed a way to distract the girl. He couldn’t befuddle her with some kind of spell – that would probably be disastrous, if he had taken Professor Gryme’s warning correctly. “What charms do you need help with?” he offered.

She gave him a surprised glance, and then laughed. “You are serious?”

He smiled, hiding his own discomfort. “I will, if you want me to.”

She closed her book. “Well, I was about to take a break anyway. It will be a long time before Mr. Knowles comes back from delivering his lectures. Would you care for tea?”

He considered a way to politely decline, but she had already rung a small silver bell on the side of the desk, and within a few moments, a house-elf appeared, dressed in her brown-and-silver embroidered tea towel. “My lady? What is you wanting, my lady?”

“Can you bring us tea, Holly?”

The house-elf curtsied and disappeared just as quickly as she had come; only seconds later, she returned with the tea. The girl thanked the house-elf and dismissed her. The service was of porcelain, and Tom was almost sure it was Sevres, but most of his thoughts were on what the elf had said.

"My lady?" Is this girl a Mountwarlock?

“Who exactly is your father?” He was suddenly glad that he’d stayed for tea.

She tossed her head back. “Lord Mountwarlock, of course. I'm Lady Cleopatra. He sent me up here to continue with my studies for the day, without any interruption from the Hogwarts students.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You didn’t sneak up here from the Hogwarts tour, did you?”

There was an awkward pause, but Cleopatra seemed to be almost pleased that her calculations had been right. Tom cleared his throat, avoiding the question. “Will you inherit all of this, then?”

She gave him a dark look. “No. My cousin will get the house and the land – all of it. I’d be lucky to keep the house in London. Papa would never let a girl inherit.”

He stared at her; within five minutes of conversation he had already managed to touch a raw nerve, it seemed. She heaved a dramatic sigh. “So,” she said, pointing her wand and Summoning a chair from across the room (a spell Tom himself had not learned, at least not in class), “where do you come from? You really are from the Hogwarts party? Were you lost, or merely curious? Or were you looking for someone, perhaps?”

He took the chair as she poured the tea. “Not someone. Actually, my Arithmancy teacher – Dr. Gryme – worked here once, as the librarian. I believe these were his rooms. I admit I was curious about where he’d lived.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’ve heard of him, your teacher. He was gone about the time I was born, but I believe he taught my father once. How strange…” She looked at Tom thoughtfully. “Do you like your Arithmancy professor?”

“Well, yes. He’s a very good teacher – and knows all sorts of things far beyond his subject. Why do you ask?”

She shrugged and handed him a cup and saucer. “Well, I wouldn’t be the one to know. He was very much before my time. But, from what I’ve heard, there was something that was... a little wrong about him.”

Tom shook his head, and shifted uncomfortably; how many times had he wondered himself about Professor Gryme? “I really don’t know what you mean,” he said, loyally. “I admit, he is a bit reserved – there is a lot that I don’t know about him – but he is a good and supportive teacher – and yes, I do like him, very much.” Tom’s curiosity suddenly got the better of him. “What exactly did you hear about Professor Gryme?”

“Just a few hints, really. The house-elves keep secrets even from me,” she smiled ruefully, “and Phantomsby’s a harder nut to crack than Papa is! But your professor comes back each year with the tour, so I should think it can’t have been very bad – but he certainly did leave in a hurry.”

And that, Tom felt, was surely true – or he’d not have left the ring behind for Tom to recover. And he’d have retrieved it himself, perhaps, if he weren’t being watched, or… but maybe it wasn’t anything important. Perhaps it was, as Tom had thought, just a test. A test of his skill, maybe… or of his obedience?

There was another pause as they both sipped their tea in silence; Tom’s gaze fell to the books that lay heaped on her desk. Not all of the parchments were in English. One brilliantly illuminated scroll caught his eye, its every scene alive with the movement of brightly coloured knights in armour. As Tom watched, the letters somehow reshaped themselves until he suddenly he found he could make out the words: Ancient Chronicles of Bramandin. Tom scanned his mind carefully. Had he come across it before?

“It’s family history – of a sort. Pleasure rather than study, you know.” Cleopatra explained before he could ask.

“What are you actually studying then?”

“Apart from my Patterning Charms? The usual Greek, Latin, Muggle history…” she trailed off, noting his look of surprise and interest. “Oh, of course, they don’t bother with those sorts of things in Hogwarts, do they? It’s one of the reasons I study at home, instead of there.”

Tom let the implied criticism pass. There was enough truth in it to sting.

“I’d wondered why you weren’t at school. Who teaches you?”

“It would have been Dr. Gryme, if he’d stayed. There’s Mr. Knowles, and sometimes Phantomsby – and Mrs. Lefay for magical painting – and a Muggle tutor for classics and history – and the things they don’t teach you up there in Scotland. There’s Mathilde, my maid, for French (she’s Swiss). I go to Dr. Metheglin for potions, but we haven’t got anyone yet for Hieroglyphs. For family history, I talk to the ghosts – they can remember it all, you see,” she added after a moment's hesitation. “Not that I get very much of a holiday, but at least I learn some real things too.”

“Well, Hogwarts isn’t all bad,” he said, not-quite-defensively. “It’s much better than attending Muggle schools.”

“Of course it’s better than Muggle schools!” she sniffed, “It’s one of the most respected magical schools in the world, but it isn’t like Durmstrang, or Alqazar, perhaps, in Morocco. They teach more than Charms and Potions there.

“But Papa didn’t want to send me to Durmstrang, of course – he doesn’t have any influence at all over there, and he really hated it himself. And I’d much rather stay here – for as long as I can.”

Tom was thoughtful. “You must really like it here.”

She broke into a smile. “Oh, I do. I love this house, and the gardens, and everything. There isn’t any place like it anywhere. It’s one of the most magical places in England, you know,” she said proudly, “and no one but a Mountwarlock can ever truly understand the enchantments here – we’ve been part of it for so long, you see.” She frowned. “Even my cousin Jasper doesn’t.”

“Does he live here too?”

The girl shuddered. “I should think not. He brings a gaggle of Bright Young Things and they all play Exploding Snap or Polyjuice Poker. I’m avoiding them as much as your party!” She somehow sensed Tom’s restlessness. “Oh, there’s plenty of time for you to catch up with them; Mr. Knowles is sometimes an hour with the books.”

Tom sank back in his chair, relieved. I hope there’s time to get the ring! But he was taken aback by her next question.

“What is it like to play Quidditch?”

He blinked. “Well, I don’t play for my House team or anything. But there’s a feeling of freedom like nothing else. You’re on your own up there – and there’s just the game, and nothing else matters. Do you honestly mean that you’ve never played it?”

“I couldn’t play the ordinary game. They never even let me fly on a broomstick. It isn’t thought dignified for a lady – and once I’d got my own winged horse, I suppose I didn’t exactly want to – though it would be fun to mess about on the roofs. You know what it’s like to fly a winged horse?”

“No. I had a rather different childhood.” Tom hesitated, and then went on. “I never saw either of my parents – my mother died when I was born – and she was the magical one in the family. I was raised in a Muggle orphanage.” He paused for a little. “I didn’t – I don’t – like it.”

Cleopatra looked distressed. “No, I guess there are worse things than Cousin Jasper. But… was your mother of an old wizarding family? There’s something… I don’t know. I suppose it’s silly of me to say it, but you do seem the type.”

Tom was somehow absurdly pleased.

“Yes, from I’ve been told she was – although I’m still not utterly certain. I don’t think she had any living relatives. At Hogwarts half of them think I’m a Mudblood. Until the owl came with my Hogwarts letter, I had never heard of magic….” He trailed off, mildly uncomfortable that he was telling her so much.

“I don’t suppose you see any Quidditch here, then?” he asked.

“No, we don’t get much of it. But I did get to play Quidditch Polo once, when a Persian party came last year.” She smiled at the memory. “They were only here for a month, alas, and ignored me at first, as I was a girl, but not when I’d beaten them at their own game! There was a girl of my own age, Anahita, who still sends an owl, from time to time.”

“Quidditch Polo? You mean, with horses?”

“Winged horses. I’d just broken in Hippolytus. You can see him when you go on to the stables.”

She poured Tom another cup, and passed him a selection of cakes. “Just… what is it about the magic here?” he asked suddenly. “I could feel it, even in the village, and for some reason, it’s… different.”

For an answer she lifted a hand and seemed to concentrate on one of the bookshelves across the room. Suddenly Tom noticed a book twitch a little, and almost topple to the floor. Then she gave up and waved it across with her wand, but Tom was still extremely impressed.

“You moved it a little, without your wand?”

“It’s not much, and I can only do it here. There are threads of magic all over the house, all kinds of ancient enchantments which, somehow, are all in tune to us. I’d be helpless without my wand outside – and even here… well, you saw just now.”

Cleopatra set the book down; Tom tilted his head to read the title across the spine: Magical Almanach de Gotha and Peerage. She flipped through the pages briefly. “There’s more family history here,” she explained, all too eager to talk to him of her heritage. “It goes into some detail about our origin. Some things you can even trace down to this generation, like our height. The Mountwarlocks have always been tall, for as long as anyone can remember. My late great-grandfather was eight foot high. In any other family there might be rumours of giantish ancestry,” she spoke the words with some distaste, and Tom’s mind went to Rubeus Hagrid, “but people wouldn't quite dare say that about us; I suppose they know it's a family trait.”

She closed the book, and emptied her cup.

While Tom had to admit that he found Cleopatra’s discussion deeply interesting, he was already more aware of how much time he’d spent listening than he was of the discussion itself, for he still did not have the ring in his possession, although he had been upstairs for quite some time; and he was still unsure how he would finally succeed in taking it, without Cleopatra’s being aware of it. For a moment he actually considered asking her – but no, his loyalty was to Gryme – and he’d adjured him as strictly as he could to be silent. He wondered, briefly, if Gryme perhaps had stolen the ring – and yet, he had always been good at knowing when someone was deceiving him, and when Gryme had told him that the object was his, he was almost sure he was telling the truth.

Not that the professor had told him everything. There was something mysterious going on. And Tom didn’t like to be kept in the dark.

But Gryme was waiting for him downstairs, and was probably already alarmed. No, surely the professor would trust him. He still had a little time.

His gaze flicked repeatedly to the picture over the fireplace. The castle was fairly tall, if not large, an island of turrets in a sea of trees. The forest oaks were now blowing as if in a gale, and now and then a bird would fly across and blot out the view.

“That’s our castle up in Scotland. We don’t go there much, except for the dragon hunt – which is more in the line of my Uncle Maximus,” Cleopatra explained, following his gaze. She grimaced. “You may have heard of him – the big game hunter. That’s one of his griffins there by the fireplace.”

Tom followed her eye to what he had thought was a lion skin, just by the hearth. Now he noticed two wings branching out near the neck. The eagle-head looked up at him with great sad eyes, and he was rather unsettled by it.

“He ran out of room for all his trophies, and so he started to send them here.”

“Do you really like working with that thing there?”

“You should see the live ones we have round the house – though they lock them away when the students come. Griffins are quite ferocious, you know. We always have kept the unlikeliest pets.”

“Really?” said Tom, thinking of Hagrid again. What would the boy give to wander around here? He stood up and walked towards the painting above the mantelpiece. He felt more than a little nervous; all he had to do was stretch out his hand across the enchanted canvas, and whisper, and his task would probably be complete, yet he couldn’t do a thing with Cleopatra looking on – and the clock was ticking by downstairs. It was increasingly frustrating.

“Are you interested in art?” she inquired, coming to stand behind him. Then, slightly mocking: “Do they even teach it at Hogwarts?”

“Yes, History of Magical Art – well, some of us choose to do it. Not me, I’m afraid. I decided to focus on Arithmancy. With Dr. Gryme,” he added.

“Oh. I see. I haven’t started Arithmancy yet, but I have done some reading about it…” She turned quickly and disappeared into the bedroom.

Tom could scarcely believe his luck. Acting quickly, he stretched out his hand, letting his fingertips brush against the canvas (which even seemed to feel like tree bark), and, with a quick flick of his wand, whispered the words which Gryme had confided to him:

“Libero saeculum.”

A mere moment later, he curled his fingers around something bright and heavy, marvelling at his success; he had no time, however, to examine the ring, because at that moment, Cleopatra returned, carrying yet another book with her. At any other time, Tom would surely have been fascinated by the obviously ancient Arithmantic tome, but at present, he was in far too much of a hurry; with the ring in his hand now, he was suddenly even more aware of how much time had passed. He hoped that he was not too late to catch the rest of the students before they left the library. How quickly could he leave, and still be polite? She set it on the desk, and Tom bent over to take a look.

“Oh. This book is in Greek, isn’t it?”

“This one is – although half our Arithmancy books are in Arabic. I believe your Dr. Gryme translated a few before he left.”

This was all extremely fascinating – and a chance to know what he’d wondered about Gryme. But the object of his curiosity was waiting downstairs – and for all Tom knew, he was seriously alarmed by now.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” he explained hurriedly. “I don’t want to get left behind.”

Cleopatra looked mildly disappointed. “Of course. Knowing Mr. Knowles, they’ll still be there, but you might not catch up with them as easily as you’d think, if they’ve gone ahead. They always go to the stables, though, to see the animals. Perhaps I will see you around the house, later?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. But good-bye – and thank you for the tea,” he said, brushing past the tables and back into the landing, then down the spiral staircase once again. The ring was safely on his finger now, but when Tom slipped through the secret doorway once again, he found his worst suspicions confirmed: the Hogwarts party had indeed moved on. The library was now eerily silent, empty except for its odd and magical paraphernalia. A ghost stared at him, and went on its way.

Tom shut the secret door, cringing once more at the ridiculous titles: Rebirth of a Nation, by Phoenix Ashe.

To be continued...

* * *

Authors’ Note: Please feel free to send any questions, thoughts, or comments to [email protected] and [email protected]. Feedback is very much appreciated.

ETA on Chapter Two is Thursday, May 30.