Death in the mask

      Tom automatically followed the green waistcoated rotund back of Professor Slughorn. Although Diagon Alley was not very crowded this early, he did not even remember his original intention to find a moment alone with the old man and erase his memory of this unexpected encounter. Now he was more concerned about the newspaper tucked under his arm, whose rustling yellow paper he was now clutching with his fingers, as if trying to convince himself it was not a mirage or vision but really in his hands.       It seemed the universe had met his intention to find out the truth about his own future with its characteristic humour, and the answer was more generous than Tom could have imagined. There was no doubt that Minister Thomas Gaunt was him. Evidently, he had not simply failed to return to Hogwarts in 1943. It looked like Tom Riddle had vanished from the face of the earth, and in his place appeared Thomas Gaunt, with a slightly altered appearance and a noble surname behind him. But how? How had he managed to pull this off?       He had been looking for proof of his lineage, a connection to the famous family tracing back to Salazar Slytherin himself. However, he had only been able to dig up circumstantial evidence — his grandfather’s name, Marvolo, and his mother Merope’s death on the day of his birth. This was nowhere near enough to request ancestry confirmation procedures at the Ministry. Besides, initiating such measures required the will of a family representative, without which bastards could knock on as many doors as they liked but no pureblood families planned to accept unplanned children with open arms, sharing status and wealth.       Tom could hardly imagine the derelict Morfin Gaunt, who had no wealth to speak of, coming with him to the Ministry and expressing a desire to accept his nephew into his family, give him his surname. This was besides the fact that his dear uncle had long since been arrested for the Riddles' murder, which he would have had to confess to thanks to the helpfully cast Confundus. Morfin had surely been tossed into Azkaban that very day Tom went to the future, and wizards did not live long in that harsh prison.       The fact that the official path was closed meant only one thing — he had somehow managed to forge Ministry records right in their archives. And until he understood how to pull that off, it was too early to leave. So the help of Slughorn, who had suddenly developed fatherly feelings toward him, might come in handy. If there was one thing you couldn’t fault the old man for, it was his ability to make the right acquaintances and establish ties with influential people. That was probably why the professor so strongly supported the compulsory education law — so that not a single influential student would slip through his grasping claws.       Besides, in his inimitable boastful manner, Slughorn had hinted at his acquaintance with the Minister. Even if he did not suspect who Thomas Gaunt really was, he still remained a thread through which Tom could try to contact the Minister. Surely the adult Tom would share valuable information with his young self, but he could hardly make an appointment to see the head of state at the Ministry. No one would allow an unknown boy off the street access to the number one person in the government.       So when Slughorn nodded next to Flourish and Blotts, Tom once again put on a polite smile and sincerely promised to wait for his old teacher for an hour. After watching him head furtively toward Knockturn Alley, Tom stepped into the bookstore sandwiched between other fantastical buildings on the magical street.       It seemed hardly changed in half a century — still the same spacious round rooms with high ceilings, shelves along the walls stacked to the ceiling with books. Here and there, especially noteworthy editions that were in high demand were displayed on tables. They stood out with their colourful covers and moving photographs, vertical on piles of their brethren stacked into a kind of pyramid pedestals. Sunlight flooded the tops of the shelves with a golden glow, creating a fairy tale atmosphere. Tom inhaled the familiar smell of fresh paper and printer’s ink, and his heart grew as cosily content as in the Hogwarts library, one of his favourite parts of the castle.       There were still practically no people this early hour. Enjoying the moment, Tom walked past the displayed bestsellers, studying what was currently on people’s minds and hearts. “Quidditch Through the Ages” was not relinquishing its position; “Violet Spirals of Amortentia” — some lady’s novel — was breaking sales records; “Me Myself — Magician”, the new autobiography of someone named Gilderoy Lockhart, was also high on the charts. Glancing briefly at the primped blond on the winking cover, Tom headed toward the history section.       Approaching the right shelf, he lovingly ran his long fingers along the spines, examining the books on modern history. “Rise and Fall of Grindelwald”, “History of Magic of the 20th Century”, “Famous Witches and Wizards”, “The 28 Most Noble Families”, “The Wise Politics of Britain”. Going on a hunch, he pulled out the last book and took it in hand. Indeed, it was dedicated to recent Ministers of Magic — or rather, for the most part, to one of them, against whom the author diligently portrayed all the other postwar Ministers as pale and dim-witted. Recognizing the familiar style, Tom smirked and flipped the book to glance quickly at the cover. As he had guessed, the author was none other than Rita Skeeter, who this time was clearly working on commission.       He took a couple more books and went over to the low windowsill, settling into the narrow space between two stacks of textbooks. Peering out the window, they beckoned students and parents with the stern letters on their covers. He quickly leafed through the fawning odes to his own policies by the ubiquitous Rita and set the book in a pile to purchase. In “The 28 Most Noble Families” he found the chapter about the Gaunts, the last couple pages of which were also dedicated to him. He skimmed it — there was little useful information.       The book claimed Merope Gaunt had lived until 1950, and her son Thomas Gaunt had been homeschooled. He had brilliantly passed his N.E.W.T.s at the Ministry to confirm his mastery, which, in principle, Tom could do now after some preparation: in subjects like Transfiguration and DADA, his knowledge already exceeded the school level. After this, the young Gaunt was immediately hired by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as a junior employee on the recommendation of Abraxas Malfoy. Where he very quickly proved himself a responsible and astute worker, rapidly climbed the career ladder, and became head of the DMLE by 1965 and was elected Minister of Magic by 1975.       Tom set aside the book in a stack to return and jotted down a couple lines with the relevant dates in his diary. He pensively chewed the end of his quill. He must have travelled back not to 1943 but 1950, and in combination with the altered appearance, no one had any suspicions that he was the Tom Riddle who had gone missing a few years prior. Except, perhaps, his school friends, hinted at by Abraxas Malfoy’s support. Apparently his now adult classmates already occupied good positions at the Ministry by then and had gained some power, which he had taken advantage of. Interesting. He opened “History of Magic.”       In this book by someone named Bathilda Bagshot, he himself only warranted very little, much more was dedicated to Grindelwald, whose policies the historian described in pointedly neutral tones, to Dumbledore, who clearly enjoyed her special love, and to the first Muggle-born Minister Nobby Leach. Tom grimaced but added the book to his stack — the information could prove useful. Catching movement outside, he politely waved to Slughorn and headed to the checkout.       The elderly professor looked as if he could barely keep from singing with joy — evidently the Knockturn Alley hunt had gone well.       “Oh, Tom,” he chatted without stopping, “The students only just finished their last O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s yesterday, and I have a week before the results are announced that I can finally dedicate to myself. I’ve been cooped up in the castle since September. Got some fresh air for the first time, and how successfully,” he threw Tom a sly glance. “Come now, come on!”       They returned to the Leaky Cauldron, where Horace took a couple bottles of Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey with him, not ceasing his chatter, and loaded Tom up with a crate of butterbeer. The barman cast sideways glances at “Mr. Bill Stubbs” but kept silent, Tom also did not comment on his shattered cover — it did not matter anymore what the man thought or told anyone now. Finally the green flames in the fireplace licked his trousers, and after a dizzying flight he stepped out after the professor into his living room, hugging the clinking cargo.       “There, there,” Slughorn absently pointed a finger toward the bar. Tom set down the butterbeers by the ornately carved dark wood cabinet and looked around.       The décor was quite charming and cosy: small flowered wallpaper, plump beige striped sofa and armchair, crystal chandelier, fluffy mint green carpet. In addition to Hogwarts and the orphanage, Tom had only ever seen Nott Manor, Lestrange Manor, and Malfoy Manor, so he looked around the home of an ordinary, not very wealthy wizard with curiosity.       On the coffee table lay magazines with moving photographs mixed together with scholarly journals from last year; stars moved across the clocks on the wall above the sofa; a fluffy multicoloured duster of feathers diligently brushed away dust from the numerous knickknacks on the shelves; a hovering watering can was automatically watering the mini garden on the windowsill. Tom approached the flowerpots, examining the black belladonna berries, running his fingers over the narrow aconite leaves that looked like needles. Recognizing the ugly, puffy Mimbulus Mimbletonia, he grimaced and moved his hand away so as not to get a face full of its smelly sap, then stepped away from the windowsill.       On the neighbouring shelf stood numerous photo frames capturing Slughorn with his collection — both promising students and adult high-ranking wizards. His gaze caught on familiar faces, and Tom picked up one of the frames, studying the group of young Malfoys, Lestranges, Mulcibers, Notts, Averys, and Dolohovs. In the centre of the photo next to Slughorn stood Tom himself, with the professor’s arm around his shoulders while he politely smiled. Even in the small photo you could see the smile did not reach his eyes. Tom ran his finger enchantingly over his own face: it seemed like only yesterday, but really — another lifetime.       “Yes my boy, your friends,” Slughorn’s voice sounded behind his ear, and Tom slowly turned his head toward him. “They’re all in high positions at the Ministry now, still together. Look,” the Potions master confidently took down one of the frames in the centre at eye level and proudly tapped the photo with his finger, “The Minister and I. He’s your namesake, by the way.”       “A common name,” Tom responded.       Slightly smiling, he examined the photo. In truth, the company had not changed, only aged, but Slughorn did not need to know that. So all his school chums — Walpurgis’s knights — were still with him. He studied the aged faces thoughtfully — the photo had been taken relatively recently. Among them he looked the youngest, and not only because of returning a few years later.       Tom’s discerning gaze identified the characteristic signs in the colour photograph: pale mucous membranes, unnaturally smooth skin, restricted facial expressions — transformations all too familiar. It was interesting whose blood had more snake venom now — his or Grindelwald’s in his heyday? He could bet that in either case it was more than Cleopatra had had. In addition to preserving the body, another plus — he could no longer be poisoned by neurotoxic venoms. Recalling the remaining steps of the extremely complex ritual, Tom grimaced internally, though without externally displaying it at all. What you wouldn’t do for a long life in a young body. Long, but not eternal.       He half-listened as Slughorn boasted of his photos. Tom only tuned back in when a familiar name caught his attention.       “Anyway… I’ll go see Dumbledore tomorrow and discuss your situation with him. Should I take you along too, Tom, yes? Albus will be so happy you’re alive!”       “Yes, I look forward to seeing him,” Tom ground out. Whatever the old man entertained himself with, as long as he didn’t interfere. Let Slughorn deal with his reinstatement at Hogwarts, he would leave this time again by September anyway, vanish into Lethe again. And while the professor was busy, Tom could focus on historical research.       “By the way, Professor Slughorn,” Tom made his face as innocent as possible, “you see, all my documents were left at the orphanage, both Muggle and magic…”       “No more need be said, my boy,” the old man raised a hand warningly. “I happen to know someone in the registration department of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We’ll get you all set up, of course.”       “I don’t even know how to thank you,” Tom nodded politely.       Half an hour later in the kitchen Slughorn was noisily devouring shepherd’s pie, cooked by Tom from ingredients found in the freezer, and washing it down with firewhisky. He praised the culinary talents of his young student, not realising Tom had only furtively waved his wand a couple times, pretending to be busy at the stove. Now Tom nodded absently, ignoring the speech and sipping tea, pondering in his head what poisons he could brew from the ingredients filling this house. Going with Slughorn had indeed been the right decision after all.       

***

      Finally extricating himself from the professor, Tom retired to the guest bedroom allotted to him. Slughorn’s house was modest — living room, kitchen, and two bedrooms — but that was all the lonely old man who lived at Hogwarts nearly year-round needed. Tom looked out the window — across an overgrown English lawn an enchanted Muggle lawnmower was driving by itself, tidying it up for the returned owner. A hedge screened off the neighbours, and there was no one to behold such an atrocity.       He finally took the Daily Prophet out of his bag. So much he had managed to find out in one day about his new identity. Settling in at the small desk, he unfolded the yellow paper. He should look at what is going on in the world right now.       In addition to the big article about the Minister and his new law, on page two Tom’s eyes caught on a small piece about a robbery at the home of some Prewetts where the residents had barely survived by miracle. The head of Magical Law Enforcement, Dolohov, comments on the incident and supports the looming bill to expand the authority of his department. Reading between the lines, Tom saw this was not the first such attack, and a power struggle of some kind was in fact happening beneath the calm, measured magical world. Making a mental note to look into what was going on in more detail, he set aside the newspaper.       

***

      The next day Tom, like a polite and grateful guest, took on the chore of grocery shopping and cooking. Slughorn gave him some Muggle banknotes and sent him to some Tesco on the edge of the village. Only when approaching the indicated place did he realise that Tesco was not a person but a thing: this big sign hung on a long low building that resembled some kind of warehouse. People entered at one end and exited at the opposite end, pushing mesh carts piled high with groceries ahead of them. Copying what others were doing, Tom walked through the glass doors that slide open by themselves as if sensing his presence. He frowned, pondering how they worked this way with Muggles.       However, soon the doors were the least of what occupied him. Instead of the usual near-empty glass display cases, the store contained produce-laden open shelves and a complete absence of clerks. Tom had heard of such supermarkets in America — they had appeared there already in the 1920s, but this fashion had not reached England in his memory. Shaking off the numbness, he repeated the actions of those around him — took a cart and went down the aisles, calculating a mental list of needed groceries.       One wheel jammed. Tom irritably kicked it, which did no good. Annoyed, he hissed and moved to the side, crouching by the cart trying to figure out what was wrong with it. Quickly discovering the irregularity in the metal disk’s geometry, he fixed the wheel with one jab of his wand through the bag and, extremely pleased with himself, continued on his way down the shelves.       Half an hour later he caught himself making engrossed calculations of the optimal price for the ground meat packaged in plastic containers. The yellow price tags evidently indicated a sale, judging by the crossed-out higher prices, but the discounted price did not look the lowest of those on display, which made him doubt the simpletons' ability to count. They also printed the ingredients on the packages in such tiny font it was hard to read. Tom was horrified to find, in addition to the meat, a couple lines listing ingredients that had nothing to do with meat on the ground meat container. Setting aside the product with some cursed soy content, he considered this endeavour useless and simply took an average priced package with the shortest ingredient list.       Another half hour later he realised Muggles were not as simple as all that, especially the owners of this store. The most expensive products were displayed at eye level, and people mostly grabbed those without thinking too hard. The departments turned out to be laid out so a person would walk through the whole store, preferably a couple times over. In addition to needed groceries, outright junk that mainly targeted bored children waiting in line could be found everywhere, especially nearer the checkouts — candy bars, little toys. Tom turned the colourful “Durex XXL” box, puzzling over its purpose. The young Muggle woman in line behind him for some reason blushed deeply and turned away, though still throwing interested sidelong glances.       Finally finding the word “condoms” in a tiny font, Tom raised an eyebrow in surprise and slowly put the box back on the shelf. Evidently the approach to sex had also changed in this time — in the forties you could only buy something like this in a pharmacy, wrapped in nondescript brown paper, as his orphanage neighbours whispered. Not that such things interested him, he had access to magical contraception methods — spells and potions. And although he was indifferent to thoughts of sex, he had learned a contraceptive charm just in case. To broaden his horizons.       

***

      Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed with interest as he examined Tom, sitting primly on the uncomfortable visitor’s chair across from the headmaster’s desk. The piercing blue eyes seemed the only unchanged detail. The reddish-chestnut mane and neat goatee had changed to long silvery locks. Tom stared at the bells tied to the band holding the beard. Even though Dumbledore had aged, he had not abandoned his eccentricity. It was a little surprising that such a powerful wizard seemed not just resigned to but was enjoying his old age.       Pushing away thoughts about what Tom himself would have done to preserve a young body (and what Thomas Gaunt had in fact done), he gave Dumbledore the most naïve gaze possible. He ran through his mind memories of the whistling German planes, the trembling earth under his feet, and then the glass and metal building that had suddenly appeared before him. The images perfectly complemented Slughorn’s speech, who was pacing the office waving his arms excitedly as he recounted their unexpected meeting at the Leaky Cauldron. The edited version of the right memories had been prepared in advance; glancing through them casually, Dumbledore nodded approvingly and shifted his gaze to Slughorn. Tom smirked internally: showing the opponent the fragments you wanted seen was a much more successful tactic than erecting a hard mental block, which would immediately make it clear you were hiding something. If only he had understood this earlier, Dumbledore would not even have suspected his involvement in the Basilisk episode.       “I cannot express how glad I am that you remained alive, Tom, even in such an unusual way,” the headmaster said after the Potions master finished his account. “Naturally, we will provide you with any possible assistance. What do you yourself think about being reinstated at Hogwarts?” The icy blue eyes fixed on Tom probingly again. He shifted his gaze to the brightly red massive phoenix sitting on a perch and feigned contemplation.       “I’m afraid I have no choice, Professor,” he said after a few seconds of silence. “I read about the new compulsory education law…”       “Of course, there is no question for discussion!” Slughorn exclaimed, waving his hands. “The boy must complete his schooling. And although he has already passed the minimum required O.W.L.s, he’s still underage to get a job somewhere. No, no, such talent must certainly be nurtured and sustained with the right knowledge, in the proper company!”       “It would be a great honour to continue my education under the Hogwarts professors,” Tom nodded in agreement. Dumbledore did not take his eyes off of him, seemingly trying to peer beneath the skin. He folded his hands into a steeple, thoughtfully tapping his fingertips together.       Tom relaxed his smile, bringing to the surface of his consciousness memories of strolling through Flourish and Blotts yesterday, lovingly touching the book spines with his fingers. Although being reinstated at Hogwarts did not particularly interest him, it would be extremely suspicious and detrimental to his legend to demonstrate indifference. He should avoid attracting extra attention from Dumbledore.       Having decided, the headmaster gestured expectantly. The massive cabinet behind Tom opened a drawer by itself, one that turned out to be much larger inside than outside, and extended out of the seemingly shallow piece of furniture by a couple metres. It was completely stuffed with vertical folders. One of the folders flew out of the archives and landed right in Dumbledore’s palm.       “Tom Marvolo Riddle. Year of birth 1926, current age… Sixteen,” he corrected the automatically calculated number with a brief touch of his wand. “Slytherin House, enrolled in 1938. Fifth year completed in 1943, ten O.W.L.s, all Outstanding,” Dumbledore tilted his head thoughtfully, feigning acknowledgment of his student’s achievements. “Except for Divination and Muggle Studies.”       “Divination is not my area,” Tom smiled politely.       “Yes, I remember, you are a man of logic,” Dumbledore nodded, continuing to examine the papers. “Transferred to sixth year in… 1996,” he changed the date with another short touch. “Congratulations on your return to Hogwarts, Mr. Riddle.”       Some incomprehensible yearning appeared inside at these words, and Tom, shaking the old man’s outstretched hand, smiled quite sincerely. And what if, really… No, it was too early to think about that now. He needed to gather all the information first, and only then make any decision. He could not be led by his inappropriately awakened emotions.       “I’d share a drink at Rosmerta’s in the Three Broomsticks to celebrate this,” Slughorn rejoiced as they descended the spiral staircase after saying their goodbyes to Dumbledore. They had arrived via the fireplace in the headmaster’s office, but now the Potions master was evidently eager to stretch his legs on a walk. “Just in time for lunch.”       Tom politely agreed and followed the professor out from behind the retracted stone gargoyle guarding the headmaster’s office. And he froze for a second, surveying the expansive corridor bathed in sunlight, the high Gothic windows and light roughly hewn stones of the walls. He slowly inhaled the air that smelled so familiar and comforting. And against his will, with some deep strings of his soul, he felt — he was home.