housewives' club

“What did the old man say?” Hepzibah Smith asked, butting into Tom's personal space. Her beady eyes were drawn down to Tom’s bingo board, which he attempted to block by hiding it behind an arm.

She would have had a full house if not for just one more space. And Tom would not let that happen. Ever.

“B-12.” Tom lied. That was the one number that Hepzibah didn’t have.

“Aw, pity,” she muttered. “I am so close to winning this round.”

Tom smiled at her, his teeth bared behind stretched lips. “I’m sure you would. Unfortunately, it seems as though luck is not on your side.”

Hepzibah added a few more comments, which Tom completely ignored and sat back down. The heavy smell of grandmother’s perfume followed her.

Thank Merlin that Hepzibah Smith wasn't a regular here. Obviously, Tom knew this. He came here every Monday and Friday, which were when bingo nights were hosted. Harry would seldom tag along when he wasn’t busy with work, but it was just Tom today. As usual.

It wasn’t as though he was complaining, not at all. Tom is the proud husband of Harry Potter, the head of the Auror department, first to be the youngest in such an esteemed position. The income was great and their relationship was fruitful.

However, it was difficult to keep busy at home when all that was left to be done had already been done. Magic goes a long way toward helping with chores, so there must be some way for Tom to keep busy.

That is where the semiweekly bingo nights and the occasional housewives' gathering come in. Hermione Granger, the president of the Housewives' Club, was the most difficult housewife to get along with. Every time Tom approached, her eyes would narrow in immense suspicion, and her painted red lips would purse unseemly.

“Why would you want to join?” she had asked when Tom had approached her for an invite. “This isn’t an ‘everybody’ club, Riddle. You have to meet the expectations.”

“On the contrary, I believe that I do meet the expectations, Granger,” Tom replied. “I'm a house husband.”

Granger had stared at him for a moment, opened her mouth, and then promptly shut it without saying a word. After a few more seconds, she finally managed to get out a single word, “What?”

Tom dusted the front of his frilly apron that was tied on top of his evening robes. He had seen the ladies at bingo night well put together, with pearls layered over lace, and decided to do the same. Naturally, he had grown a liking for this style. It was fitting for his titular position after all.

“If you would like me to repeat myself, I would. I'm a househusband now.”

Granger's eyes flitted down to the apron that spelled out in mint green cursive letters, "live, laugh, love," and then back up to Tom's serious face with what seemed to be both sheer horror and disbelief.

“Riddle… Weren’t you in some sort of wizarding mafia the moment you got out of Hogwarts?” Granger asked, her voice quite faint.

Tom solemnly nodded. “The Knights of Walpurgis did not bring me the satisfaction that being with Harry does now. I've changed for the better.”

They were both silent after his declaration until Tom pulled out a beautifully wrapped package—the paper decorated with eternally blooming red roses—from his apron pocket and handed it over to Granger.

She tentatively ripped it open to see a knitted scarf (which was probably the worst thing Tom has ever made). The yarn was bright red, and a lion appeared to be in the process of being impaled by a sword, its organs spilling out gruesomely. Despite the imagery, it looked to be made by expert hands.

"It was supposed to be Harry's, but it didn't turn out the way I had hoped, so I'm giving it to you." He paused. “Am I in the Housewives' Club now?”

Granger took a deep breath in and out, looking to be on the verge of tears.

That very same day, Tom received a handwritten acceptance letter from an owl. Ever since, he has been a prominent and admired housewife in the housewives’ club.

So, in conclusion, Tom’s life was great.

“O 45,” Dippet called out abruptly. He read the letter number again over the top of his glasses and then threw it aside where a pile of folded slips was evergrowing.

Finally.

“Hah!” Tom shouted, marking it down on his bingo board viciously before slamming the table. He stared down Hepzibah Smith with vindication. “Bingo!”

“Quiet down, Tim,” Bathilda urged. She tugged at his sleeve weakly.

Tom shrugged her off, but not before shooting Hepzibah another scornful glare. Then he turned to Bathilda. “It's Tom.”

“Alright, Tim,” she said with a sigh.

Oh, how he hated Bathilda Bagshot. She was a batty old lady who lived down their street.

The first day that Harry and Tom moved into their house, Bathilda wandered over and gave them a basket of 15 peanut butter jars, one of them half empty. Unfortunately, Harry's severe allergic reaction to anything involving peanuts caused him to nearly die on their doorstep.

Tom still hadn’t forgiven Bathilda for that. On the other hand, Bathilda claims she has no recollection of that ever happening. Her old age must already be decomposing her insipid mind.

“Bingo!” a caller shouted from across the room.

Numerous heads perked up to see who it was and immediately turned back down to their own cards once they recognized her.

Dolores Umbridge. Covered in bright pink to distract from her ugly face (not that it did anything to cover that), she was the most unpleasant person you could ever meet. The table she was seated at was completely deserted. And yet, the nearby tables were overcrowded with other ladies who were desperate to be deprived of her company. She was the Bubonic Plague in human form.

“Fucking Umbridge,” Romilda hissed. She glared at said woman with such venom that it was a great surprise she wasn’t part basilisk.

Tom rather liked Romilda. She was friendly enough if you talked to her, especially if it involved gossip. They got along swimmingly in the housewives club. Although, he would like her a whole lot more if she were part basilisk.

“Fucking Umbridge,” Tom agreed.

“Amen,” said Hepzibah.

“Shut up, Hepzibah.”

Bingo night was fun.

———

The smell of roasting chicken wafted through the air, permeating a sense of ravenous hunger, regardless of whether or not you had eaten already. The chicken itself was laid out to cool on top of the La Cornue stove and Tom stood by it, waiting for the garlic potatoes in the oven to be done.

The scene did not change until five minutes later when a single "ding!" signaled that the potatoes were ready. Tom opened the oven door, heat blanketing his face, and pulled out the tray of diced potatoes with his puppy oven mitt.

It all smelled heavenly. There was also a faint aroma of vanilla, which belonged to the candle sitting in the perfect middle of the dining table. Plates, utensils, and condiments had been set out as well, all aligned perfectly. Tom used his protractor and ruler to measure the distance.

It was the definition of a perfect dinner. Now, all he had to do was wait for Harry.

He sat himself in a chair, patiently staring at the open fireplace. Then he got back up and walked around aimlessly, dusting off already clean surfaces.

Tom didn't want to admit it, but he was worried about Harry's return.

That morning, Harry had bid him a grim goodbye with the prospect of possibly losing his job. They had talked about it briefly over breakfast before an urgent Floo message made itself clear. The Department of Magical Law needed Harry to respond to a situation as soon as possible, and in the next second, Harry scrambled to put on his coat, kissed Tom a soft farewell, said a couple of inauspicious words, and stepped into the Floo fireplace.

It wasn’t something to be easily ignored. Even though the two were well off in terms of money, the notion of them having to save and budget due to unemployment wasn’t exactly appealing either. Sure, Tom could easily get a job, but he had devoted his time, blood, love, and soul to Harry.

They would figure it out soon enough. With the two of their heads combined, they could lead to world dominance if only Harry didn’t get upset over that idea.

Tom finally took a deep breath and forced himself to sit down. If worse came to worst, he could always owl his former Knights of Walpurgis members. Last he heard, Abraxas Malfoy was honeymooning in Bora Bora.

There and then, the open fireplace burst into brilliant green flames, spraying harmlessly against the edge of the walls as they licked at the steel, and out stepped his weary husband, Harry Potter, in his stead.

Tom hurried forward, taking care to brush off the remaining soot on his ministry robes.

It had taken him a while to actually step out of the Floo (read: dramatically), instead of toppling over. Even now, Tom had to secretly admire how Harry’s hard work paid off. It had nothing to do with the situation at hand, of course, but one must always make a striking entrance. Tom should know. He was very well-versed in all forms of theatrics.

“Anything concerning us?” Tom was the first to break the tense silence.

Harry made an odd face. He always did that when he knew he shouldn't say something but said it anyway.

“Just a bit. McLaggen got fired.”

That immediately brightened up Tom’s day. “That’s wonderful!” he said with a genuine smile.

But Harry didn’t finish. “It is,” he said, nodding, “but he isn’t happy about it. He thinks I have it out for him, so right before he left, he stared at me and declared that this wouldn’t be the last time we would meet. He also said something about how I would ‘regret’ making him lose his job or whatever.”

“Did you?” Tom asked. “Did you try to get him to lose his job?”

“Obviously,” he scoffed. “McLaggen never does any of his work, and he only has that job because of his dad, so it's basically nepotism.”

“How expected of him.” He thought for a moment. "However, what truly got him fired?"

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It only bounced back, and a strand curled over his tanned forehead. "He got in trouble with the Magical Law Department because he apparently engaged in a duel in the middle of Diagon Alley over something pretty rude said about him."

“That is the most idiotic thing I have ever heard of.”

“I know. But at least I don’t have to worry about him anymore,” Harry said.

"That is if you disregard his veiled threat to get you back,” Tom pointed out.

Harry waved it off with his hand. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

It was most certainly not fine, but Tom put it aside from the conversation.

“You made dinner?” Harry asked abruptly, in slight surprise after the lull in dialogue. He unbuttoned his overcoat and draped it on the coat hanger, staring at the spread-out table in awe and then back at Tom. Creases of exhaustion lined the corners of his eyes, but Tom loved them all the same. If anything, they only turned fonder by the second in his presence.

“I always make dinner,” Tom said, giving a light kiss on Harry’s forehead and leading him to his usual seat.

“Smells amazing,” breathed Harry, sinking into his seat.

In the morning, Harry kissed Tom goodbye and flooed to the Ministry.

It was time to call for an urgent Housewives' Meeting.

———

“I think you should poison him,” Romilda proposed.

“I like that idea, but I’m afraid we need to opt for a more subtle plan,” Tom interjected before she could continue.

Romilda gave a loud groan but stopped giving out her plans for murder so blatantly.

Tom had relayed the story to the housewives gathered around his kitchen table. Although his retelling may have been more… dramatic than it was, they all sat and nodded raptly at every word. He always had a penchant for public speaking.

“Maybe we should go back to the issue of McLaggen’s duel,” Hermione said. “Couldn’t we get him into more of a legal issue?”

Tom ruminated on this thought. “Too moral.”

“Ooh! I know! We bug his house, snap some photos of him when he’s naked, and send it to the Daily Prophet!” chimed in Lavender Brown.

A loud silence fell over the table.

Parvati, who was in the midst of picking up a biscuit from her plate, promptly set it down to partake in the silence.

“I think…” Hermione said with a slow and wary cadence, “We try a different route. A more… objectively acceptable one.”

“I for one agree,” Tom said begrudgingly. “We need to prevent him from enacting any form of revenge. Not encourage him.”

“What if we sign him up for Scientology?” Luna asked after a bit of contemplative quiet.

An agreeable murmur ensued and with a leaf of parchment and a quill, an interest form was filled out for Cormac McLaggen.

“Housewives, I believe justice has been served,” Tom said to a cheering group of women in his kitchen.

———

It was an ordinary day for Cormac. He got fired two days ago which ruined his already temperamental mood, but his morning started off easier than expected.

A cup of hot tea was set on his counter to cool, and he rested beside it, reading through the Daily Prophet in his hand. Nothing interesting save for the wedding section where Susan Bones had married Ernie MacMillan last night. Their vows were beautifully written and he gushed over it with glee. What a cute couple. Too bad they might have ginger children.

A rapt knock interrupted his quite important business and he scowled at the door.

“Who is it?” he called out, setting the Daily Prophet on the counter and walking towards the door.

“It’s Ethan Waters!” a muffled but bright voice replied. “I’m here on behalf of the Church of Scientology!”

Cormac frowned. He didn’t go to church of any kind. Nor did he recall sleeping around with any Ethans, so it couldn’t have been somebody claiming his baby. Either way, he made his way to open the door, curiosity getting the best of him.

A smiling face greeted him. His face was indistinguishable from the complete averageness that seemed to make him up from his shoes to his hair. The only defining characteristic about him was the wire-rimmed glasses sitting perched on his pointed nose.

“Pleasure to meet you, Cormac McLaggen. The Church of Scientology awaits you! We’ve received your interest in joining our welcoming community and we couldn’t be happier!”

Ethan said all this with a very cheery attitude, not missing a single breath. His brown eyes seemed to stare very earnestly at Cormac—if not a bit intensely.

“Erm… I don’t remember signing up for that,” Cormac said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Oh no, you did sign up,” Ethan said. He continued staring widely at Cormac, his smile not dropping at all. “You probably just don’t remember.”

“…Right… What is the church thing about anyway?”

“I’m so pleased you asked!”

Cormac waited for Ethan to continue but he didn’t say anything. The only thing that Ethan had on his face was a slightly vacant smile, but his lips were otherwise, tightly closed.

“Alright then, I guess you won’t say,” murmured Cormac.

Out of seemingly nowhere, Ethan’s cheery expression dropped and he let out a sigh that seemed as though he had just taken on the weight of the world. “You blondes always take the longest to gas.”

“I beg your pardon?” was probably the last words Cormac ever spoke before his legs gave out under him and he promptly dropped to the floor like somebody had cut his imaginary puppet strings. Unbeknownst to him, he would never meet his friends and family ever again. Not that he had any.