He Is Hesitant
Chapter Sixteen: He Is Hesitant
Hogwarts, 1990
Hermione and Tom slipped out of the Common Room, not wanting to risk discovery should other students begin rising soon; she knew for a fact that Percy would start bustling about within a matter of moments. Instead, they wandered the deserted corridors, chatting idly, catching up on the past two months. The mystery of Quirrell hung strangely between them; however, knowing that their morning together would very soon drawn to a close made it easy to stick to lighter topics. She told him all about her classmates—the good and the bad—about Hagrid and her Professors and her vague disappointment that the general atmosphere around Hogwarts was not more academically-minded. He told her about how boring his lessons seemed, how dull his own classmates had proven to be, and made a few vague references to the idea that the only thing keeping him interested in his current studies at all, rather than merely working ahead on his own, was the opportunity to tutor other First Years.
Eventually though, Hermione could not help herself—there had been one question burning her tongue since last night and she simply had to ask. "Can I tell them?"
"Well, that's not cryptic or anything," Tom replied wryly, arching one dark brow at her. "Can you tell what to whom?"
Even now, she knew it was a terrible idea to broach the subject, particularly since she already knew his thoughts on the matter. The question was out though, and it seemed like a terrible opportunity to waste, so she pressed ahead anyway. "Can I tell Harry and Ron about you?" she clarified. "I don't like having to lie to them so much."
He sighed heavily, looking up in exasperation for a brief moment. "Hermione, we've talked about this before—"
"And I didn't like lying to my parents, either," she cut him off firmly. It had never sat well with her, but she'd understood his hesitations at the time. Of course, he'd presented them as worries about getting caught sneaking out of his orphanage, which was patently false. Without asking, she had to assume that his real concern had been attracting the attention of authority figures, a worry which did not translate into this situation. Harry and Ron were both First Years as well, and Tom had never once seemed bothered by revealing himself to anyone from her primary school. How was this any different? "It was easy to hide a secret friend from my parents—they never asked a lot of questions because they were just happy that I had some sort of companionship—but my friends and housemates are bound to notice something."
Tom stopped short, suddenly rooted to the spot. "Friends?" he spat disbelievingly. "How can they possibly be your friends? They've spent the last two months ignoring or antagonising you by turns!"
"Don't change the subject," she warned, stopping as well. When she turned to address him, the look on his face gave her pause—he was completely gobsmacked and quickly turning thunderous. She refused to relent, however; if he said no then that was that, but she wanted a straight answer either way. "Can I tell them?"
"They're not my friends, Hermione," he sneered, giving her a dark look. "How can you be so sure that they're even worth your time or trustworthy enough for mine?"
If pressed, she would guess that his question had less to do with Harry and Ron's moral fibre and more to do with Tom's own sense of jealousy. Knowing that, she gave the empty question a suitably empty answer, "Gryffindors stand by people." He was not at all pleased by those words, so she attempted to redirect his attention, needling, "Besides, what are you so afraid of, Tom?"
"From them?" he asked, clearly taken aback. "Nothing. But a pair of loose lips could gain the attention of a Professor. Even assuming that a staff member didn't automatically contact the Ministry, you can bet that they would do their best to separate us." He slipped his long-fingered hand into hers and began strolling down the corridor again. "Is that what you want?" he demanded unsympathetically. "An indefinite repeat of the last two months?"
There wasn't a single thing that Hermione desired less, but she didn't see how they could hope to maintain the status quo, either. "No," she explained, squeezing his hand reassuringly, "but I also don't want to lose my two new friends when they doubtlessly grow suspicious over the Slytherin boy they will likely keep catching glimpses of." It would be disastrous—both boys were inherently inquisitive and would interrogate her for weeks about where she was disappearing off to and why they kept seeing flashes of her socialising with a snake. "I'm not saying you have to meet Harry and Ron, just let me explain the situation to them." If there was no mystery to it, then the circumstances would eventually become commonplace and they would lose interest.
Tom glanced sideways at her, considering. "Why are you so scared to lose them? You aren't alone, Hermione," his grip tightened, as if afraid that she would disappear should he let her go, "you've got me."
She had understood from the outset that her friend was a very isolated boy and, though they had grown immeasurably close, he had never seemed quite as affected by loneliness as she was. He desired only her company, but she had always wanted more. How was she meant to explain that without making it sound as if he was somehow deficient on his own? "Yes," she said slowly, "but I only see you for a very small part of the day—not even most days, at that—and you're not in any of my classes."
"Apparently most of the curriculum hasn't changed enough for that to matter; we're still covering essentially the same topics at the same time," he argued, and his meaning was clear—they could still do their homework together, still explore the boundaries of their magic just as they always had. Nothing had to change. "Besides," he continued, voice dropping softly, "you know those two won't be able to keep up with you academically, and they will resent that in the long run. In fact, if even half of what you've told me is true, Weasley already resents it." Whether he was playing devil's advocate on purpose was debateable, but he seemed to realise how mean it sounded because he then joked, "How you didn't end up in Ravenclaw, I'll never know."
She was determined not to be sidetracked. "But they're my housemates! We should be friends!"
He pulled her closer, tucking her under one arm. He'd been unusually tactile and affectionate today, but she found that she quite liked it—it was a comfort that she had keenly missed from home.
"This wouldn't be a problem if you'd been sorted into Slytherin," Tom replied, but there was something about the sentiment that rang false—not necessarily that he was lying to her, but more like he couldn't bring himself to say what he really meant.
Hermione had a feeling that she knew what he wanted to say, though. "If I'd been born in your time, you mean," she corrected quietly, burrowing herself deeper into his side. Now that she truly understood the full magnitude of the distance separating them, their friendship felt like it was under a certain amount of pressure—pressure that could have been immediately relieved if only they both lived in the same year. "It's not exactly as if any of the Slytherins here are all that friendly. They don't seem to like anyone who's not a Pureblood, and even then it's pretty thin. In fact," she continued the thought to its logical conclusion, more as a distraction than anything else, "Slytherins don't seem to like anyone except for other Slytherins. It's a wonder you even put up with me."
"Well," he chuckled, a touch sarcastic now, "I knew you before we were sorted."
"Oh, well, thanks," she muttered dryly. "That's a load off my mind."
He looked down at her in another one of his slanted, sideways glances. It was impossible to read his thoughts, to know what he saw of her, but something made him proclaim, "The thought still stands, though. You would have made a good snake." She had a feeling that the words were spoken more out of loneliness than anything else; he wanted her close by and was self-aware enough to realise that he'd probably make a terrible Gryffindor.
But the thought was interesting, on the surface. What would it have been like to end up in a different House? The Sorting Hat had very much liked the idea of Ravenclaw, though it had noted that she was a bit too reckless and determined to really enjoy herself there. At the time, she had been deeply in awe of the famous names that had come through noble Gryffindor, had wanted to touch some of that greatness herself, and so that was where she had asked to go. The Hat had never mentioned Slytherin and she had never asked; even then, she had understood that people like her did not end up in the House of Serpents. "I don't think I meet the criteria," she acknowledged out loud.
"What, cunning? Ambition?" Tom shook his head mockingly, as if to say don't be thick. "You've got them in spades. If you were in my time," he pondered almost dreamily, his arm tightening around her shoulders, "I would drag you to my Common Room so often that you might as well have been sorted a Slytherin."
Hermione couldn't help snorting at his little daydream. "You realize our Houses are rivals, don't you?" she asked sardonically. "They have been for over a thousand years."
"Trivial," he smiled brightly. "Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor were supposedly close friends for the better part of their lives. Are we not meant to follow in their footsteps?" It would have been an admirable sentiment if not for his obvious desire to be a contrarian. He spoke the words only in an effort to be different.
For her part, she was halfway through pondering that ancient friendship when it dawned on her how far off course their conversation had gotten. "You distracted me," she accused hotly, sending him an irritated glare.
His humour, shallow as it was, dropped immediately, but his tone was still light and airy when he replied, "Apparently, not well enough."
"Please, Tom," she wheedled, aware that she was dangerous close to whinging. "I really like these two; don't force a wedge between us." Keeping a secret as big as Tom's would naturally build a wall around her. She would never be able to get as close to others as she wanted, because a part of her would always have to remain aloof. Not to mention the fact that they would eventually realise something was off and would likely be hurt that she chose not to confide in them about it. "You are my best friend," she continued to appeal, "but you know what primary school was like for me. I cannot do that again. I want to know people; surely you feel a similar desire for friendship?"
"You are my friend, which is one more than I honestly ever expected to make." He seemed pained by her stark earnestness, but he kept a tight leash on his temper. She couldn't blame him for his frustration; she knew she was asking an awful lot. Catching sight of the hopeful, pleading look on her face, he closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, relenting, "If it's that important to you, then I'll think about it. But take heed now," he warned her in a tone that brooked no argument, "I will not change my stance on adults, not even muggles. It's just too risky."
Hermione was elated. "They're trustworthy boys, Tom, I swear," she promised in a rush, although a part of her was aware that she hadn't actually known the two boys long enough to make that judgement.
"If they're to be told about me, we'll have to ensure so," Tom replied darkly. Then, apparently unable to help himself, added, "I don't like this, Hermione."
She wrapped her arms around his middle and gave him a tight, albeit brief, hug. "But you will think about it?"
"For you," he promised, returning the gesture. His tone was clearly aggravated, but she got the impression he was still being honest with her. "If we go through on it, it will be your responsibility to keep an eye on them."
His phrasing was strange—he made it sound as if she'd just been begging to get a puppy. She was well aware that his generosity here was just an effort to appease her, but the idea that he might think about Ron and Harry as little better than pets made her uncomfortable. "You won't regret it," she vowed quietly, shaking the disturbing thought aside. "They are very sweet when you get down to the heart of them." Probably.
He laughed humorlessly, obviously still a little put out. "That sounds unbearably naive, but I'll defer to your judgement for now." He paused for a weighty second, then turned to face her before firmly adding, "I will want to meet them, though."
"Are you sure that's wise?" she asked, holding back a grimace. In the grand scheme of things, she was still learning about Harry and Ron, but she could already tell that they were very different people from her time-traveling companion. She honestly couldn't picture the three of them in the same room without some sort of argument breaking out.
"Probably not," Tom confirmed with a genuine chuckle, "but bringing them into your life makes them a part of mine as well." He raised a brow at her. "Why so nervous? You're not embarrassed by me, are you?"
"No!" she burst out immediately, struggling to find the right words to voice her concern. "It's just, well… you're—"
"A Slytherin?" he supplied knowingly.
Hermione sighed in resignation. "Ron has some very solid ideas on that matter." She didn't necessarily put a lot of stock in the House rivalry, but Ron was from a very old family and seemed convinced that anyone who came through Slytherin was a murderer-in-waiting. In his defense, Slytherin didn't exactly have a glowing reputation, and that would make it all the harder to get him to set aside his prejudices for Tom's sake.
"I don't doubt that he would usually be right," Tom shrugged, unconcerned with having just casually slandered his own House, "but in this instance he'll simply have to get over it. What about the other boy?"
"Harry?" She thought hard for a moment. "He loathes Malfoy and Snape, but I don't think he really has an opinion on any of the other Slytherins. Besides, he seems to enjoy mysteries and oddities—he might be quite taken with your circumstances, to be honest."
And that seemed to be that, as far as their conversation went. What it meant for the future was a little uncertain. Tom could still back out, although from the steely set of his jaw, she had a feeling that he wouldn't. As Hermione sat at the breakfast table—long after they had finished chatting and bid their farewells—the magnitude of their plan struck her. Was it safe for Tom to meet two more people from the 'future'? The more her friend was exposed to people and things he should not know, the more likely it was that he would somehow change the timeline. And yet, the same argument could be made in regards to her own relationship with him; how could she be so forgiving of one situation and nervous about another? In all probability, Tom had already changed the timeline—if, in fact, such a thing were even possible—so what did it matter if it changed even more? She couldn't forgive her own influence in his life, but then blithely condemn the idea of him meeting her other friends; that was just hypocritical. And, to be perfectly honest—though she knew it would be a hard-fought battle for everyone to remain civil—a part of her was excited at the idea of all four of them hanging out together.
Hogwarts, 1938
Tom was distracted all throughout Herbology—not that the Professor seemed to notice—his thoughts often wandering forward in time to be with Hermione. She'd put him in an unfortunate position with her request. On the one hand, he could acknowledge that her plea was both a logical and reasonable favour to ask for; humans were essentially social creatures, and her behaviour in this was expected, if not downright predictable. However, on the other hand, he was incensed by the very idea of not only revealing himself but, more importantly, being forced to share her attentions. What could she possibly gain from those two boys that he himself was not already providing her with?
From the murky recesses of his thoughts again came the idea that the only way to have her companionship to himself was to isolate her. And the only way to truly isolate her would be to cut her off from all other social avenues—to bring her into his own time, where he would be her single point of familiarity. He had struggled with the idea before, after several years of observing how much influence her family had over her, but he had eventually come to terms with the fact that her parents did her more good than harm by providing her with a level of safety and comfort he was not in a position to offer. Never before had he had to worry about boys his own age appealing to her—he had met her in the midst of a pre-existing social structure, where she had largely been considered a pariah. He had failed to take into account that Hogwarts would be a blank slate, an ocean caught in a constant tide of shifting alliances, and in his regrettable absence she had formed new bonds. It was his own fault, really, which meant it had to be his own hand to rectify the situation; he could acquiesce to her desires for now, but that didn't mean he would give up on his time-travelling research.
Distantly, he felt a little guilty about his high-handed attitude, particularly so soon after their reconciliation. The trust Hermione had given him was a precious and fragile thing; if she could only hear his thoughts now, he had no doubt she would walk away from their friendship for good. It was utterly selfish of him, he could acknowledge that, but he could also justify the desire to displace her in time as an act of protection. Her Hogwarts had been invaded by a grim unknown. Whether it was actually her Professor or some entity working through him was irrelevant, because in either case the danger was still apparent. There was no way for him to know who was trustworthy in her time, who she was and wasn't safe from—and it didn't inspire a lot of confidence that he had sensed some of that errant familiarity off of one of the boys she'd decided to take under her wing. Fragile trust or no, he simply couldn't stop himself from pursuing the research; a part of him was eerily certain that understanding how to manipulate time-travel might one day become a dire necessity.
Tom was lucky enough to have a break between lessons that afternoon, and so he used his spare time to visit the Archives. The Seneschal was delighted to see him again. She was alone in the antechamber, idly flipping through a copy of Fur, Feather, and Scale as she frittered her lonely hours away. A bewitchingly lovely smile split her normally sharp features when she finally caught sight of him. "You came back," she sighed melodiously, equal parts surprised and hopeful.
He could not begin to imagine the isolation she faced in a post that no one seemed to know existed. Between visiting scholars and flustered students, how often did she honestly have company? It couldn't be nearly often enough, seeing how taken she was with him after he'd only visited perhaps two or three times. However, her tragedy was his fortune—if he could not get through to her in Parseltongue, then he would at least still be able to flatter his way into her good graces. Her hermitage made her vulnerable, and he was certainly not above taking advantage of that, not when she had the potential to get him the materials that he really needed.
With that in mind, he gave her a winning smile of his own. "I'm often finding myself in the midst of unusual research," he told her softly, hoping that she found boyish precociousness endearing. "This seemed like the place to come for answers, especially since you were so helpful last time."
She waved him over, inviting him to the seat beside her. Her willowy stature dwarfed his own height even while seated, yet she bent down to be closer to his eye level. When she spoke her voice was teasing, but the words held an undercurrent of curiosity, "You're very young to have so many serious inquiries."
Tom had always hated that sort of attitude, and it was an effort to keep it from showing on his face. Why did so many people feel that learning was not an age appropriate activity? How was he meant to grow if he was held off at every turn? There was absolutely no benefit to willful ignorance, and yet everyone around him seemed to go out of their way to promote it. He could forgive that attitude in London, but he had not expected it in the wizarding world as well—particularly when there was just so very much to be discovered.
He pushed his anger aside and gave a shrug. "I don't see what age matters in the pursuit of knowledge."
And, despite having spawned the whole train of thought, the Seneschal appeared to understand. "You remind me of the mermaid pups," she reminisced fondly, "always curious, always asking questions."
"So you are a mermaid, then?" he asked, instantly latching on to her words. He had expected her to be more secretive on the matter for some reason. But then again, looking as she did, he supposed secrecy wasn't really all that practical.
"Partly," she nodded.
He'd never really considered the implications of that before, but the idea was intriguing. How many humanoid creatures out there were capable of producing offspring with mankind? Did the hybrids receive wizarding magic, did they have their own brand of powers, or did they exist somewhere in between? Were the majority of them capable of higher thought or were they merely bestial? He had to stop those ponderings cold though, regardless of how interesting they were, or else he would lose the thread of the conversation.
The Seneschal was in an indulgent mood, a fact that might ease the way for him to explore the thought he'd had last night—whether or not mermaids were at all related to snakes. With that hypothesis firmly in place, he attempted to keep their discussion firmly fixed on her heritage. "I've seen them from the Common Room," he said, thinking of the dark shadows that glided serenely past Slytherin's windows, "but I've never actually met one before."
She shook her head and chuckled, as if meeting her kind was the last thing he should want to do. "You would find it very difficult to understand a full-blooded mermaid," she replied. "Their language is half beautiful melody and half banshee-like shrieking."
"I'm pretty good at languages, actually," he put in offhandedly, marveling at how easy she had made this. He hadn't even needed to direct the conversation; she'd brought up what he wanted to talk about on her own!
"Oh?" she asked, not altogether disinterested, but clearly skeptical that any such talent could extend to more exotic realms.
Tom was only too happy to prove her wrong. "For instance," he carried on brightly, "as far back as I can remember, I've been able to speak in… Well, how to put it?" He paused for effect, then switched over to Parseltongue, allowing his voice to draw out in rolling sibilations, "Ah, yes—in a tongue of hisses and whispers."
She frowned and cocked her head confusedly. "Did you just say something about kisses and vipers?"
Her misunderstanding was comical, to say the least; not so very different from the city tourists that he'd often heard mangling English. "Not quite, no," he drawled, unable to keep the bemusement off his face.
"I have heard the Sirens sigh in a language like that. I am related to them so I understand a little," the Seneschal explained, then chuckled derisively and added, "though obviously not as well as I thought."
"Sirens?" It was Tom's turn to cock his head. "I thought that was just another name for mermaids."
"No," she murmured, flipping through the pages of her book until she came to the desired entry, "though many do believe it. They are our Mediterranean cousins, more beautiful than we, at least on the surface."
She wasn't wrong. The illustration in Fur, Feather, and Scale depicted a shockingly pleasing creature. The siren was overtly feminine, svelte and yet rounded in the most womanly places. Her face was sweetly innocent, surrounded by cascades of loosely curling hair—the overall effect was angelic, an idea that was lent further credence by a pair of massive, bird-like wings. And yet, even in the picture, he could sense a curious wrongness, an edge of deception. This creature was not so gentle as it looked. He ran a finger down the swell of the siren's cheek, asking the Seneschal, "And below that surface?"
She pointed to the siren's slitted pupils and laughed, seeming to take pleasure in the hidden nature of her distant cousins. "Do not let their pretty plumage and comely features fool you; they are snakes at heart."
"Curious," he murmured. At least it explained this pseudo-failure in communication; she was snake enough to hear his words, but too distantly related to truly understand them. Then, belatedly, it occurred to him that he had admitted to his own ignorance concerning sirens, making him flush darkly as he hurried to excuse the lapse in knowledge, "I was raised in the muggle world, you see—I'm only just starting to learn these things."
The Seneschal's mouth nearly fell open in shock. "In the muggle world? But you are a Parselmouth!" she insisted, as if somehow those two qualities could not coincide. "How can this be?"
Tom rarely found himself unable to follow a conversation, but the woman beside him was no longer making any sense. She knew he was an orphan—where had she thought he'd grown up? "I don't understand," he conceded, hating the words even as he appreciated their necessity.
"You came to me once looking for family," she explained, oceanic eyes glittering with excitement. "I believe now that we were searching in entirely the wrong place. Wait here." The soft command had barely left her lips before she was disappearing beyond the sealed door of the Archives. Several long moments crept by—long enough for him to wonder what was going on—but she re-emerged before he grew too restless. In her pale blue hands she carried a thick tome entitled Silver-Tongued: The Compendium of Parselmouths, which she unceremoniously handed to him. "This may shed some light on the matter." She smiled secretively as he browsed the index, but before he could inquire as to what she was so giddy about the expression had dropped into a frown. "Have you told anyone else about your power?"
"No," he shrugged, turning back to the book. While he was almost certain that his fellows in Slytherin would be impressed with his ability, he had wanted to research the topic before revealing himself—particularly since it had not gone so agreeably when he'd received his Letter. "Well," he amended, remember the tense way his Transfiguration Professor had flinched, "excepting Dumbledore, I suppose."
That news did not sit well with her. "And he did not direct you here?" she demanded incredulously. He didn't even manage to open his mouth before she waved the question away, continuing in a haughty and irritated sneer, "No, of course he wouldn't, overprotective man that he is." Though a measure of respect was still apparent, she was the first person he'd ever met who didn't seem to think that Dumbledore was the most impressive man in all of Great Britain. There was clearly a history there that she was struggling to set aside, a battle that she eventually won. Her eyes softened as she glanced between him and the book, and when she spoke again her musical tone had turned purposefully comforting, "It is no fault of your own, but the ability to speak in Parseltongue is widely considered Dark Magic."
Tom couldn't see the sense in that, and didn't mind saying so. "Why?"
"Association, most likely," the Seneschal replied with a sad smile. "The majority of known Parselmouths were, by coincidence, steeped deeply into the Dark Arts."
That was an interesting thought. Was the ability to speak to snakes inherently corruptive, or were the people who could do so simply predisposed to darkness? He was self-aware enough to admit that he wasn't exactly the paragon of moral upstanding and never would be, but nor was he the festering evil that he had sensed in the future. "Do you believe it's Dark Magic?"
She barely paused to consider the question, replying, "It is an inborn talent, how could it be evil? Nature is not good or bad, and it will not bow to the human concept of moral idealism. Some animals are born with fangs and claws; that does make them monsters, merely predators. The mermaids, for example," she gestured to herself, to her deceptively sharp teeth and the throat that produced subversively relaxing melodies, "we were given voices to lull and seduce our prey—no one can really blame us for that, because it is simply in our nature." In a show of bravery, or perhaps solidarity, she laid her hand atop his dark hair and explained, "We cannot condemn the predator for following its instincts anymore than we can condemn you for being born as you are."
He considered her words carefully. It was a point of view he could appreciate, although he wasn't naive enough to assume many others would share it. He certainly wasn't going to start feeling badly or apologetic over one of his favourite talents, but it did throw the idea of whether he should share that skill with anyone into question. Clearly, he would have to study this Compendium of Parselmouths very carefully before he made any decisions. "This isn't what I came for," he finally replied, running his fingers over the gilded edges of the thick tome, "but thank you all the same. It will prove an interesting read, I'm sure."
His mermish companion made a sound of surprise, obviously having lapsed on the reason for his visit. "Ah, yes," she smiled, retaking her seat. "I forgot about your curious project."
A part of Tom was worried that he was biting off more than he could chew. After all, he already had his schemes with Andrus and Alphard, his burgeoning relationships with the Ravenclaws and a trio of Gryffindors from the future, the very real worry that Hermione's Defense Professor was actually a Dark wizard in disguise, and now this book of Parselmouths to read, all while still giving his regular studies their due attention. Adding his research about time-travel on top of all that was probably stretching himself too thin, but he didn't wish to set any of it aside for later. So, despite acknowledging his vague misgivings, he still asked, "I was wondering if your Archives had any material concerning time-travel?"
"That is unusual," the Seneschal frowned, thinking the matter over. "I will have to consult the index—it may take quite some time."
Surprisingly, that news was actually a bit of a relief; it would at least give him the opportunity to advance some of his other ploys before having to adopt this new one. "I'll come back later then, shall I?"
"Give me a few days; I will collect for you what I can," she hummed, briefly taking back Silver-Tongued in order to check it out of the Archives for him. "I'll warn you now, however: what I find may not be much, though hopefully sufficient for idle curiosity."
Feeling an ounce of kinship with this strange and morally ambivalent creature, he gave her a wicked grin and teased, "Who said it was idle?"
"I will pretend I did not hear that," she replied primly, though he could tell she was amused. Ushering him from the antechamber, she warned, "Keep yourself out of trouble, Little Speaker." Her attempt at a serpentine hiss was somewhat garbled, but the sentiment came through well enough. Perhaps, in time, he could help her improve her language abilities.
With a final wave, he exited, leaving the Library entirely. His break was almost over—the book would have to wait until after Charms—but he figured there was enough time left to track down Andrus. It was unlikely that the other boy had made any progress over a single night, but it didn't hurt to add a bit of pressure to his cause. Lestrange was the slippery sort, after all, and a little stress might help set him more quickly into action.