Author's Notes: Thank you reviewers: Arsinoe de Blassenville, Lady Charity, The Enchanted Teakettle, myeerah, Idio-cynic, Ija Ijevna, Barranca, Sonzai Taz, Xenia Marvolo, ivory, Moony's Metamorphmagus, FullMetal, Jane, zhenyavj, emeraldice77, phoebe turner, Kates Master, Chelly Bean, AyamaNekura, and ESP.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does. No profit is being made from this fanfiction and no copyright infringement is intended.

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Chapter Thirteen

Heart thudding in her ears, blood rushing to her head, Merope's hands trembled as she put in her earrings. She still could not believe what her plans were for the evening: she had a date. An actual date. Someone thought her desirable… no, not just someone, Casper Malfoy.

Diagon Alley was safe once again, according to the Ministry; the German Dark wizards had taken a series of blows over the summer and were on the defensive in Europe. The autumn of 1941 was a grim time, but wizarding Britain was getting their act together more quickly than the Muggles were. And the Blitz had tapered off, thank Merlin, and Merope could sleep nights once more. She contemplated again how lucky she was to have a friend like Casper; that night in December last year had been so frightening for all of Diagon Alley's residents.

She smiled to herself. Casper Malfoy. What a strange creature he was. Most of the year he'd spent travelling the world, engaged in business transactions, posting letters from such exotic locales as Greece, Iraq, and India. He'd kept in touch with her. His letters were warm, if not flowery. And now he was back in London again and had sought her out, plain Merope, ugly Merope.

As she got ready for him to retrieve her from the apothecary, Merope tried to concentrate on her good points rather than her faults. She did not think about her dull eyes, her uneven features, her crooked teeth. Instead she thought about her hands (dainty and well-kept) and her hair, made nice by charms, and her long eyelashes which did more credit to her eyes than they deserved. Her navy blue frock was plain, though flattering to her slim figure. When she smiled into the mirror, pretending it was Casper, her face was transformed from blandness into sweet life.

She clattered down the stairwell and entered the shop just as Casper walked in.

'Hello,' he said, bowing.

'Hello,' she replied, shy as a schoolgirl.

'Have a good time, you two,' said Mr. Jigger, who sat behind the counter, going over the weekly accounts. 'Don't need a chaperone, do yah?' He gave a knowing wink.

Merope blushed. 'No, sir, thank you,' she mumbled.

Casper held out his arm and Merope took it. A delicious warmth crept through her fingers, up her arm, and down into the pit of her belly. It felt so nice to be with a man. It had been years, so many years, since she'd felt wanted… and that first time had not been genuine. She did not dwell on it too hard. Merope was superstitious and felt that to question her good luck would cause it to disappear.

They walked down Diagon Alley together. 'Where are we going?' Merope asked.

'A small restaurant. It is very exclusive,' said Casper.

Merope gulped. She hoped she did not drop her fork or spill her wine. Stressful situations made her so damnably clumsy. When she was with Casper, people tended to stare, too; not at her, never at her, but at the blond wizard who was the head of Britain's wealthiest family.

'It's also in Muggle London,' Casper added, and Merope drew in a surprised breath. She'd not been expecting that from him.

They exited Diagon Alley through the Leaky Cauldron and walked out onto Charing Cross Road. Merope knew the city well enough; it felt surreal to be in it with Casper, though. He hailed a black cab and they careened off through the evening crowds, past grand stone facades and Muggles in their shabby wartime fashions.

When they were situated at a small table in a private niche at the restaurant (it was very exclusive) Casper leaned over and whispered, 'Is this suitable for you?'

Merope nodded emphatically, pushing away a vague unease. Nice restaurants, high society, even this neighbourhood of Mayfair… it was all too much like her short domestic life with Tom Riddle. Although she didn't recognise a single face, still she was relieved that their table was obscured from the rest of the establishment by an ornate wooden screen. They'd gotten a few sideways glances with the way they were dressed, though the host had been happy to take Casper's generous tip.

'I don't like when people – Muggles or wizarding people – stare at you,' she said. 'It makes me think they're jealous of you, or want to harm you.' Merope forgot that her first reaction to the Malfoys had been one of awe and envy, just like the people who stared. In a way, she was still envious of their fortune, a low and simmering emotion that rarely made a sound against the everyday cacophony of her conscious mind.

'They would stare at you if they knew your background, my dear,' said Casper, tipping his wine glass in her direction. He smiled kindly, but there was a note of something else in his voice. Could it be… envy, too?

Merope licked her lips. 'I don't see how that has to do with anything.' Her sensitivity to her famous ancestor had not abated over the years. The last thing she wanted was for Malfoy to start sounding like her father.

'It is not something to be ashamed of,' said Casper. 'Tom is not afraid to speak of it.'

'Tom is… a strange child,' said Merope. Her face held both affection and bewilderment. 'I don't understand him sometimes… there's something hard and ruthless inside of him. I'm not sure why.'

'You have done well with him,' said Casper. 'And I believe you were right to withhold his knowledge about his ancestry until he was older. He cannot stand on anything but his own feet now.'

Merope smiled. 'Thank you,' she said softly. 'I've done the best I could.'

'And a good job you've done.'

'It's difficult!' she said. 'I just sort of bumble along. No one ever taught me how to mother a child.' She dropped her gaze, thinking of her own mother, so cowardly and so dead and so absent during her years of abuse at the hands of the family men.

Casper's white brow furrowed. He peered at Merope as though looking for something. 'Do you like me?' he asked.

She stuttered over her response. 'I-I yes, well, of course I like you!'

'Do you like me enough to marry me?' Casper asked.

Merope stared at him. He was not serious. This was a joke. How could he toy with her heart? Casper's pale eyes glinted in the candlelight and appeared honest; his mouth was pressed together, as were his hands, as if pleading. 'You can't be serious,' she said. She regretted her choice of words immediately because it sounded like a refusal.

Casper blinked. 'I am very serious,' he murmured. 'You do not believe me.'

'I—Casper, I know what I look like, I'm nothing special. You're the richest wizard in Britain! You could have any beautiful witch you wanted, not old—old me.'

He smiled a little bit. 'You're more special than you know, Merope. And I care for your son, too. Tom is an extraordinary young man. We could do well together, the three of us.'

'Is this because we're descended from Slytherin?' Merope asked. A horrible suspicion bloomed in her mind and she recalled the conversation she'd had with Tom about this very subject. As she'd learned during her stay with them, the Malfoys were 'new' money. They did not have a long history in wizarding Britain and no one even knew how pureblooded they were. Tom had noticed how the brother, Abraxas Malfoy, had married a pureblood witch from a good British family. Tom had also wondered if Casper Malfoy might also try to attach himself to someone with a similar background… Merope realised that Tom had been warning her in his peculiar way.

Her hands twisted in her lap. What would she say? Was it worth it to her to have a husband to support them, even if that husband only wanted to be stepfather to the Heir of Slytherin? And Merope could not deny that she'd tossed and turned in her bed some nights, thinking about Casper, about his eyes looking at her and his hands touching her… gently and guiltlessly and without hatred…

She realised that the silence had gone on for far too long. The gentle clinking sounds of the restaurant filled her ears as she brought her gaze back to Casper. He was staring at a spot on the white tablecloth. 'Merope,' he began.

'I didn't mean for it to sound like that,' Merope blurted. She realised that she'd already made up her mind. 'I'm sorry. I'm not very… good with words.'

'It is fine,' said Casper. 'It was a fair question.' He took a deep breath and met her eyes once more. 'Of course I would lie to say that your descendancy from Salazar Slytherin is not of interest to me. Tom will have a position to uphold when he grows up. But believe me, Merope! I have come to care for you. You are a kind and good woman and I do not believe you want me for my money. You already have a job that you are good at. You are not one of these… what do you call them… debutantes with no brain. I can speak to you about things. You intrigue me.'

'Merope Malfoy,' she whispered, almost to herself. It had such a pleasant sound to it.

'Will you marry me?' Casper repeated.

'Yes,' Merope said. She felt a thrill up her arms as he clasped her small hands, resting on the table. 'I will marry you.'

'You have made me very happy,' Casper said. 'Should I ask your son for your hand in marriage?'

'Yes, he would like that,' Merope said. For a dark and twisting moment she remembered her other marriage. Her ex-husband was still alive. That was something neither Tom nor Casper knew. And as for asking for her hand… Merope could not bear to get in contact with her brother Morfin (heavy boots on the floor heavy hand over her mouth) and so she decided yes, it was best for Casper to ask Tom permission to marry his mother. She forced a smile on her face. 'He'll be happy,' she told Casper. 'Tom does like you a great deal. I think you're his idol.'

They ate dinner together. Merope's stomach was leaping around inside of her and she had little appetite, but managed to finish her dessert. Dessert always made a person feel better. When she grasped Casper's arm on their way out of the restaurant, she contemplated the future she faced now: a husband. Sharing her bed with this tall, blond wizard. A large house, no doubt, and she could quit the drudgery of her apothecary job. Merope smiled. How had things turned out so well for her? She gave Casper's arm a bold squeeze. 'Thank you for dinner,' she whispered in his ear.

Casper smiled down at her. 'You're most welcome, my dear.'

When he dropped her at the door of the shop in the dark desertion of Diagon Alley, he caressed her cheek with a gentle hand. Merope felt self-conscious. Did he really think her beautiful? But then, in a moment that would shine bright for the rest of her life, Casper leaned down, ever so close, and then his lips were kissing her on the mouth. And this time it was true.

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Tom did not like the month of November. It had nothing going for it; the weather was cold, damp, and dark, there were no holidays, and it lacked the crisp thrill of October or the holiday warmth of December. Furthermore, examinations were a long way off and he was so far ahead in his schoolwork that he was bored out of his skull.

After glaring out the window of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, he turned his attention back to the doodle on his page. It was a sketch of Nagini, loop after loop of shining black scales. Medium: quill on parchment. Green ink. He signed his initials at the bottom of the page, TMR. At the front of the classroom, Professor Merrythought was droning on about the theory of counter-curses. Tom had read that section in the textbook ages ago. He wished they were having a practical instead of a lecture.

'Pssst. Tom.'

'What?' Tom turned to Cornelius Nott in the seat next to him.

'This lesson is rubbish.'

Tom nodded. Galatea Merrythought was an older, heavyset, robust woman with a deep voice and a pretty face. Her style of teaching was straightforward. But Tom could not help thinking that their education in Defense Against the Dark Arts was suffering, especially in light of developments in Europe. Merrythought focused on the aspects of the Dark Arts they were most likely to encounter: dangerous creatures, minor hexes and jinxes, petty criminal acts, the fundamentals of defensive shields. In Tom's mind, boring and not nearly powerful enough. He'd read the reports in the Daily Prophet. Grindelwald's loyalists used the Unforgivable Curses with regularity.

And he knew from his own illicit forays into the Restricted Section that there was a lot more to the Dark Arts than simple hexes. Merrythought was holding out on them.

Tom turned the page of his parchment, pretending to take notes on the lecture, but instead he began jotting down the things he wanted to learn. The list was long. Before he knew it, the lecture was over and he had two parchment pages filled with his own personal curriculum… and a spark of an idea that, although still buried in his subconscious, would come forward soon enough.

He gathered his textbook and paper and quill. A frown crossed his face because his leather book-bag was ratty and worn; he needed a new one but could not afford it. He would need to work some charms on the handle so it didn't fall off. 'Potions after lunch,' he said to Cornelius as they walked out. 'I heard we're brewing Wit-Sharpening Potion today.'

'Yeah. I wish we didn't have Potions with the Ravenclaws, though. They're always showing off. They know more than we do.'

'Funny, I've never found that,' Tom mused.

'That's because you're a bloody genius,' said Ian Avery, falling into step with Tom and Cornelius. 'The rest of us actually have to work for things.'

'Don't blame me,' said Tom, spreading his hands. 'Hi there, Ash!' he called to the Ravenclaw Seeker.

'Hi Tom,' Ash returned. Several Ravenclaw girls also waved at Tom.

He was very friendly to them.

The halls of Hogwarts were crowded with students, moving in a surging crowd toward the Great Hall. The din was reassuring, voices talking, laughing, the stamp of student feet. Tom took in a deep breath and allowed his well-being to show on his face.

'Tom! We liked your moves at Quidditch practise yesterday. We were watching.' Four Slytherin girls clustered around the trio of boys. They all spoke to Tom, in spite of Cornelius's attempts to get the attention of Lucretia Black by plucking at her sleeve.

'Thanks,' said Tom. 'But it was nothing, really.'

Lynx Gilder, one-half of an identical blonde set, giggled. Her sister Lamb giggled too.

'Sit with us at lunch?' That was Olive Hornby, ever bold.

'Naw, can't,' said Tom, without giving a reason why. It was fine having the attention of girls, but their incessant high-pitched chatter got on his nerves. He could only take so much of it.

'See you later, Lynx,' Avery called over his shoulder as they walked into the Great Hall.

Yes, thought Tom, looking around him from his crowded spot at the Slytherin table, everything was wonderful at Hogwarts. He waved across the room to Lawrence Carter at Ravenclaw, and then to a group of Hufflepuff third-years he'd advised on Charms last week, and then all the way across to Wolfin Fenwick and Pandora at the Gryffindor table. Lunch appeared before them and Tom took a long swig of pumpkin juice. He wanted to eat quickly so that he could dash to the library before Potions.

'Hey, Tom, look,' squeaked Antonin Dolohov. Tom smirked; Dolly's voice was still changing. They ribbed him endlessly about it.

'What is it, squeaky?'

'An owl for you,' said Dolohov, managing to keep his voice at a low octave.

Tom glanced up; sure enough, an owl was circling just above his head with a letter attached to its foot. 'Come here, bird,' he said, not wanting it to leave a mess in his plate of chips. 'You're late,' he told the owl. He untied the letter, recognising his mother's handwriting, and gave the owl a snatched piece of bacon from Avery's sandwich.

'Hey!' Avery said, protesting.

Tom shrugged. 'Just get another one!' he said. 'The house-elves love you for it.' That was one benefit of searching for the Chamber of Secrets, he pondered, as he untied his letter. He knew the deep places of Hogwarts like the back of his own hand now. It was most convenient to know the location of the kitchens. And the house-elves loved him and were so obliging…

His jaw dropped when he focused on the letter his mother had sent. It was not from her at all, even though the address to him was in her handwriting.

Dear Tom,

I am sorry to surprise you at school. I would prefer to speak to you in person about this, but it is not possible at present. I am writing on behalf of your mother – she and I have made the decision to become engaged. Because you are the man of the house, I would not feel right about marrying her unless we had your blessing.

It is more than that, of course, Tom; I consider you a friend and I would be honoured to be part of your family, if you would have me. Rest assured that you and Merope would be provided for in every way. I care deeply for your mother, and I think of you as the son I never had.

Please write to me at your earliest opportunity – it is truly up to you now. Merope's only hesitation in marrying me was to bring a stepfather into your life if you did not want one.

Yours,

Casper Malfoy

P.S. How is Nagini?

Tom gulped and closed his jaw. Unbelievable! Conflicting emotions surged through his chest: astonishment, pride, joy, suspicion, fear. Above them all, a cool metallic voice whispered to him that Malfoy was clever indeed, with that casual reminder of his patronage in buying Nagini all those years ago. Tom learned an important lesson in those few minutes he stared at the fine woven parchment: a gift can benefit the giver years later. It had won Casper entry into Tom's and Merope's lives. Very clever indeed.

Then, the rest of it occurred to him, and a slow smile spread across his face.

They would be rich. They would be provided for in every way. He could have that new Comet broom; he could have a new book-bag; he could have books. Hundreds of books. Anything he wanted.

'Tom?' Cornelius and the other boys were peering at him.

Tom folded the letter closed and wiped his face clean of emotion. He smiled at them, a meaningless smile this time, and shrugged. 'Just from my mum,' he said. 'Nothing important.'

'Are you sure?' Lestrange asked from the diagonal. 'You looked pretty happy for a minute.' Lestrange was the sharpest of Tom's friends.

'We got a rare ingredient in the shop,' Tom lied. 'I've been wanting to get my hands on it for awhile now.'

'Typical,' Avery muttered. 'You're such a swotter!'

'Not either,' Tom said lightly. He was fine with being teased as long as it took the attention off the real contents of the note. Beneath his calm exterior, however, he was still reeling. Change, it seemed, was upon him.

He excused himself from the table and went to the library as he'd planned to do… except he did not look at the textbook on advanced Charms. Instead he went to the History of Magic section and pulled out a genealogy; he knew those very well, ever since his research on the line of Salazar Slytherin. He remembered seeing mention of the Malfoys and looked it up in the index… 'Yes,' he murmured to himself. The library was empty except for some seventh-year Ravenclaws at a table.

Plunking himself into an empty chair, he read quickly through the section. The Malfoy family were only four generations pureblood; they were of Persian-French origin; one of the sons had made French wizarding history by marrying a female vampire. Tom was unsurprised; they were a pale and beautiful family. And vampire blood was quite glamorous in his opinion.

As he closed the book, a new possibility occurred to Tom, an unpalatable one: what if his mother had another child with Malfoy? What if he had a sibling? Tom frowned as a small ache squeezed at his heart… he recognised that it might turn to tears if he didn't control himself. He did not want a sibling. It was fine if Malfoy wanted to be his stepfather, but baby-like imps tugged Tom's mind in different directions.

Malfoy might want an heir. His heir. Any child of Merope Gaunt Riddle and Casper Malfoy would be the offspring of two pureblood families, with vampire blood on one side and Slytherin's blood on the other… whereas he, Tom child-number-one Riddle, had Muggle blood. His left fist clenched so tight that he could feel the crescent pressure of his fingernails in his palm.

That was not an option. Casper Malfoy was the head of that family, being the eldest brother, and he must want another son. It would not do for a half-blood to take over. Tom would find himself displaced.

But should he speak out against his mother's marriage to Casper? His heart ached at that, too. He genuinely liked and respected Casper Malfoy; he could even grow to love him as a surrogate father. And he loved his mother above all, and wanted to put her happiness above his own. She'd had a hard life, raising him on her own, toiling every day, and Tom knew that she was lonely with him away at school.

With a furious flick of his wand, he Banished the genealogy book back to its place on the shelf. What an unfair situation. He wished Malfoy were there so that he could get a read on the man's true intentions.

His afternoon in class did not go well; he was so distracted that he forgot to add dried eyebright to his cauldron and his Wit-Sharpening Potion turned a dull shade of puce. Slughorn clucked at him (just like a bloody chicken, Tom thought irritably) and shook his head in surprise.

Couldn't Tom Riddle have an off day every once in awhile?