A Plan
Mr Albert Stevens called the Riddles only three days before the witch’s hearing. The hour was improper, through dinner, but he was let in as the time was running out and the Riddles needed to know what could de done about Little Thomas.
Mary had the brandy and the coffee served in Thomas’ study, and dismissed the servants giving them enough work not to get any closer to the room. She also appreciated that the lawyer—or “advomagus” as he called himself—added an anti-eavesdropping spell on the door and windows.
“I am sorry to confirm that the only way to keep the child legitimated as a Riddle is rectifying your son’s marriage.”
Mary scoffed. That was hardly a news, and even less a good one. She and Thomas had spent the last days discussing what they should do in that case—how they could convince Tom to stay married to the witch for the sake of Little Thomas’ legitimacy—but agreed it was impossible without a way out as immediate as killing her. After all, even if they chose to go with a divorce, it could take years, or even fail—the witch was likely to close an eye on Tom’s infidelities and she was too ugly for a lover, even a fake one.
“So, what id this “good news” you spoke of, Mr Stevens?” Thomas said, narrowing his eyes at the advomagus.
The wizard sneered, taking some clipping of a newspaper to show them.
“In 1918, a British wizard married an American Muggle while both were on the Western front. The wedding was a little of a surprise for the wizarding family, but it was rectified shortly after the end of the War. A few months later, the couple decided to move in the US—”
“And what does this have to do with us?” Thomas growled.
Mary nodded firmly—she didn’t see the point of this gossip at all. And yet, the advomagus’ malicious sneer filled her with an unexpected thrill.
“Sir, Wizarding-Muggle marriages are illegal in the US.”
Mary blinked. Did she hear right?
“Shortly after their arrival in Boston, the MACUSA—the Magical Congress of the United States of America—arrested the wizard on charges of miscegenation,” Mr Albert Stevens said, tapping his finger on a particular clipping.
Thomas took it and brought it closer to his eyes while Mary rushed to fetch his glasses. According to the article, the wizard had claimed to have been under a curse that made him elope with the Muggle woman; because of the marriage’s circumstances, the MACUSA imposed a Muggle divorce and banned the wizard from the country.
“I’ve done some research through my father’s colleagues in New York, and they confirmed the case on the Muggle side,” Mr Stevens added, showing them a telegram, received not even an hour before. “Apparently, the couple had to live a few months in… Reno, before filing the divorce.”
Thomas read thoughtfully the few lines of the telegram, stroking his moustache and frowning.
“This means that—”
“You son could get a divorce for Christmas in the best-case scenario. And in the worst, less than a year after Miss Gaunt’s has served her eventual sentence,” Mr Stevens ended.
“And we can put the blame on her, right?” Mary said, unable to stop her tongue—damn.
To her surprise, the advomagus gave her a crooked sneer.
It was wonderful! It was perfect! Sure, they would have to bear with the witch for a while, but if they could get her locked up on the other side of the pond, it was worth it. Moreover, from what Mary got, the witch was quite ignorant about even her own world—she would suspect nothing, heading to her doom as quiet as a little lamb to the slaughter house.
“I won’t do it!” Tom yelled, his eyes wide in terror and his face ashen. He shook his head so hard that Mary feared he would crack his neck. “I won’t”
“Tom, it’ll be just for—”
“I said no, Father! I won’t stay married to that filthy witch any longer!” He turned his pleading eyes to Mary—the same eyes when he was just a child. “Please, Mother…”
Mary bit her tongue down, doing her best not to let her rage explode. She smiled sweetly, excusing herself, and pulled her son in the farthest corner of Thomas’ study. She made him sit on a footrest and knelt in front of him. Mary held his hands, caringly stroking the clammy palms.
“Tom, please, calm down. I understand how you feel, but there is no other choice—”
“I don’t want to!”
“Do you think that I want that filthy witch under my roof? But we have to be sensible, Tommikins.” — Dear Heavens above, she hadn’t called her son like that since he was four! — “And the most sensible thing to do is make sure that Little Thomas stays a Riddle.”
However, her son shook his head harder. “I want nothing to do with that Devil’s spawn!”
“He’s your son, for Pete’s Sake! The only one you’ll ever father!” Mary hissed, struggling not to yell. She grabbed the sides of his face, forcing him to look anywhere but her face. “If you could have children; I would have let Mr. Smithers beat and kick that witch out of Riddle House right away. However, you’re no longer a stallion, Tom!” She swallowed, allowing tear sneak in her voice. “You’re a… a gelding.”
Thomas’ phone call echoing in her head.
Tom had an accident… testicular torsion… too late… septicaemia had to be prevented… testes had to be removed…
Mary hugged him, cursing the witch into her heart. Those people could say that she lacked Magic, but Mary knew that it was her fault! A curse or something to punish Tom for leaving her…
Vengeance was best served cold.
“I know this is a bitter pill to swallow, but please, listen,” she whispered into his ear, like she did when he was a stubborn child who didn’t want to do something. “You will stay married to that witch for as long as necessary. Then you will leave for a belated honeymoon—”
“M-mother…”
“Shush and listen, Tommypooh. I will come with you to look after Little Thomas, of course. We will go in New York for the next social season and there…” Mary sneered, hugging Tom tighter and lowering her voice to a tempting whisper. “There those American wizards will get rid of her. Just think about it, Tommikins: all we’ll have to do is bear and smile for a few months. Besides, if that witch is sentenced to prison like her brother, we won’t have to see her.”
They could say that the witch was weakened by the pregnancy and the childbed fever—they could even say that she got tuberculosis while she was missing and sent to a sanatorium. And if that wizarding justice was useless and let her go with a little spank, they’ll play family for a few weeks and then leave.
“But… but they said that we’ll forget…”
Mary winced at Tom’s remark. For a moment she had forgotten about that. Indeed, if they forgot what could happen if Tom and the witch travelled to the US, then it would be all for naught.
Unless…
“I have an idea, Tom, but you must promise to be a good boy and do as you Mama say.”
“I…” Her son swallowed, looking down at his trembling hands. “Yes, Mother.”
Mary kissed his forehead, leaving a smudge of lipstick on the pale skin, and turned around with a bright smile.
“We will go with this plan.”
Mr Stevens nodded with a shark-like smile. Thomas, however, glared at him.
He cleared his throat, hissing. “Out of curiosity: why did you suggest such a plan? You said that… Miss Gaunt is a Pureblood witch, and that purebloods looks after their interest.”
As a reply, the advomagus burst out laughing, and pointed at the fireplace.
“For the same reason that portrait is here, Sir!”
They all stared at the austere painting.
“My… my ancestor?”
Mr Stevens shook his head. “That is Nathair Slytherin, the last descendant of Salazar Slytherin in the male line: the Gaunt of Little Hangleton are his descendants through his daughter Astrite.”
They all gasped—a sudden wave of disgust hit Mary so hard that she wanted to throw up.
“Are you saying that we and those filthy—”
“Oh, no, Madam!” the advomagus laughed again. “You see, I was discussing your case with my father-in-law during lunch, and—he’s a passionate of Wizarding History, reading old Wizengamot’s court cases—and he told me that this is not the first time the Gaunts have issue with your family. Anyway, Lady Astrite Gaunt and her father’s relationship fell apart after her younger brother death, and somehow her relationship with her in-laws and children as well. All because she “dared” to sell some land to a Muggle named Sebastian Riddle!”
“The family founder!?” Thomas gasped.
Mr Stevens laughed as he nodded. “And at her death, she added insult to injury by bequeathing Gaunt Manor, with a third of its land and all its content, to said Muggle. Of course, her children contested her will, but it as made in such a way that it had to be followed.” He walked to the portrait, sneering. “It’s likely that she casted an immobility spell on her father’s portrait and altered the Muggle’s memories so he would believe it was his father or grandfather.”
He poked at the portrayed face, still sneering.
“The Slytherins… the Gaunts… and most of the Pureblood families think they are gods and goddesses on Earth, while those like me and you are no more than cockroaches! You know that my family has given many respectable lawyers, and since when my grandfather created the firm not once we had a bad case! And yet... you have no idea how much they made me suffer while I was at Hogwarts!” he spat.
The disgust in Mary’s stomach turned into rage. Her husband was a Riddle! Although they arrived from the Flanders three centuries before, they owned more than half of the valley! They had money! A townhouse in London! They would get Uncle Charles’ assets, including Perlandwell with its collection of fine art! And she… her great-great-great-grandmother was a French noblewoman! Before the Revolution, she was one of the royal children’s playmates! Her mother was close to Queen Marie Antoinette and her father was a close advisor to the king!
No one would dare to look down on them!
“You have no idea how honoured and glad I am to follow your case, Mr Riddle.” Mr Stevens said, his voice hard and delighted. “To see those purebloods’ fears come true, to see the purest of them all to miscegenate with one of us… and the most amusing thing is that they had it coming! None of them stepped in to take charge of Miss Gaunt! None of them lifted a finger to prevent her crimes! Don’t you think their hybris should be punished?”
“That’s the least!” Mary said, proudly stiffening her back.
“However, that Mr Fawley said it would be in everyone’s best interest to keep things hushed. And you agreed with him,” Thomas reminded her.
Mary groaned, holding her head as the headache budded. She had three days to think of a way—they weren’t much, but she could start by familiarising with her opponent.
“Mr Stevens, would it be possible to meet Miss Gaunt before the hearing? Also, may I borrow a fashion magazine if your kin have any?”
“I can send you the Witch Weekly and The Enchantress’s Home Journal’s latest issues by tomorrow morning, and arrange a meeting.”
Mary nodded pleased, then excused herself claiming that the migraine forced her to retire for the night. However, as she turned the doorknob, she turned around.
“Oh, and I may be obliged to tell a trusted servant about Miss Gaunt’s peculiarity.”