Death in the mask

      The second hapless assassin turned out to be even more hapless. When Tom finished examining the garish Muggle t-shirt, shook himself out of his stupor, and searched the pockets of the strange pants, he didn’t find anything useful. The wand, along with the fingers clutching it, had been charred and rendered useless after the million volts that passed through the body into the ground. Unfortunately, the time turner around his neck had also melted away into something resembling one of Salvador Dali’s melting clock paintings. Tom irritably pursed his lips — he had to be more careful, he had acted on reflex and used destructive spells honed to automatism on the trees of the Forbidden Forest. Next time, a cutting spell or better yet Avada Kedavra would suffice.       Next time… He thoughtfully kicked the leg of the corpse, shod in sandals over socks. What exactly had he done to these people in the future? Especially the dimwit Mudblood in the Muggle football t-shirt? Why had two people in a row, from different future years, already tried to kill him, and why today specifically?       In 2002, he would be seventy-five, and by that time he would surely be very powerful, more so than Dumbledore now. He might even surpass Grindelwald… He immodestly hoped for that. He would never cease studying magic, and he intended to live forever, one way to ensure that was already in development. Maybe he would become a new Dark Lord?       Tom felt the thick book in his bag through the fabric. Something told him it held the answers; until he studied it, speculation was meaningless, but preparing for further surprises made sense. With a practised gesture, he touched his head with his wand; the feeling of phantom liquid flowed from the back of his head downward, and Tom dissolved into the air. His Disillusionment Charms were nearly perfect — only a slight ripple in the air could be noticed if one knew where to look. And the shadow, but fortunately it was night now.       Pensively tilting his invisible head to the side, he watched as the soil once again devoured another corpse. It had received a lavish feast today, and Hades would have owed him for such a sacrifice, if Tom believed in gods. But he didn’t believe in gods, only in himself. The grass covered the fresh grave, and he moved on toward his uncle’s shack, just in case casting a muffling spell on his feet. Along the way no one else appeared, but the Homenum Revelio he had already cast on approach to the hovel revealed another person lurking around the corner of the house under the cover of a rusty leaky barrel that had once collected rainwater from the roof.       Tom assessed the position — if he hadn’t been prepared for an attack, he wouldn’t have noticed such an ambush. The entrance was clearly visible from around the corner, while the spot itself was lost in shadow. He quietly circled the house from the opposite side and approached the man from behind.       This man was older and clearly more experienced than the previous ones. Dressed decently — a black turtleneck and pants that didn’t stand out in the dark, leather shoes on his feet. Tom slowly raised his wand at the man frozen a couple of metres in front of him, contemplating. He probably should have cast Avada Kedavra to finally preserve the time turner.       So amusing — this man’s life was in his hands now, and he didn’t even suspect it. He continued to breathe erratically from the adrenaline in his blood, nervously squeezed the wand in his sweaty hands, peered into the darkness, his heart pounding wildly as it pumped blood through its owner’s body. An owner unaware he only had seconds left. And it was up to Tom alone how this man died now. He could do anything with him. Anything he wanted.       He suddenly felt his usual indifference replaced by an unfamiliar excitement. Quite physical, although not erotic, which he was familiar with from the unpleasant surprises his growing body sometimes sprung on him in the mornings, causing only irritation. But what he felt now was much better, much stronger. His throat was suddenly dry, his chest contracted painfully, and his breathing became rapid and uneven. Heat crawled up his cheeks from bottom to top, a slight tremor appeared in his fingers. Avada Kedavra suddenly seemed too simple. He wanted to see life slowly leave this man’s eyes, see the realisation of his situation and primal terror appear in them. He wanted to feel his power to the fullest.       Without thinking too much about what he was doing, acting on pure instincts and indulging his suddenly arisen thirst, Tom stepped closer and stood next to the man. “Preserve the time turner,” flashed the last sober thought somewhere on the edge of consciousness. He would preserve it. With a nonverbal spell he cast a dirt-repelling charm on his clothes, then, pausing only for a second to take aim, he launched a cutting curse right at the man’s neck on a held breath, aiming for the carotid artery.       The man gave a short gasp and grabbed his throat with his hand, a small fountain of arterial blood spurting out from under his fingers, black in the dim night lighting. Tom stood too close — the splatter got on his invisible hands. He lifted them sluggishly, examining the drops suspended in the air, gathered into spheres thanks to the repelling charms and the surface tension of the liquid, then shifted his gaze to the man who had crumpled at his feet. He was desperately clutching the wound, but it was useless now. The blood loss shock was claiming his life too quickly.       Tom watched the process with interest, barely moving, only his heart thumping unusually loudly in his chest. When the final death throes ended, he nervously licked his lips and took a deep breath, tilting his head back to look at the nearly full moon peeking out from behind the clouds. The air smelled incredibly tasty, and his head spun from the adrenaline rush.       He stretched out his left hand, and the time turner jumped into it, tearing itself from the dead man’s neck. Tom slowly looked at it — rusty red sticky spots covered the pendant; the torn chain fused back together with a slight motion of his fingers. It took him a while to realise he was doing magic without a wand, in such an emotional state. He had always been able to do it, but the older he got, the harder it was to control. But not now — now magic was pouring in a bubbling stream, and it seemed the whole world around obeyed his desires. Remembering the wand clutched in his right hand, he carelessly gestured to clean the time turner and his own hands of blood, then put the artefact in his bag.       He shook his head to shake off the stupor and come to his senses, slowly crouching down to examine yet another fresh corpse. Already the sixth today, in the last hour, was completely unplanned.       The man’s black suit had not changed its colour, only glistening wetly in the bluish light of the Lumos spark. The stranger’s wand had broken when he fell on it with his whole body, but that didn’t upset Tom too much — he already had one trophy wand. The man’s pants pocket yielded a badge with the emblem of the Ministry of Magic. It seems the third hapless killer was one of their employees. Tom tossed the ministry pass into his bag — you never know, it might come in handy.       He got rid of the body in a now familiar way, then shook the stranger’s blood off his charmed clothes. His usual composure was gradually returning. But he shouldn’t relax: he was no longer sure what awaited around the next corner. Yet he didn’t tremble with fear, as any other person in his place would realise his life was being hunted. He only felt slight irritation at such an inconvenience and gradually increasing interest. Which didn’t spoil the all-consuming tranquillity that had arrived, lingering on the edge of his senses.       Without removing the disillusionment charm, he went to Morfin’s shack. No one else appeared around, the annoying killers had calmed down for now, and Tom decided not to waste time in vain. His uncle had clearly come to his senses a little after Tom’s invasion and dozed off again. Tom wrinkled his nose — what a pathetic man! He had his wand taken away, legilimency used against him, and he just went back to sleep instead of trying to resolve the situation somehow.       He woke Morfin by slapping him. He whimpered chokedly and stared blankly into the void, blinking, unable to see his opponent. Tom threw his uncle’s wand into the corner of the room — no need to leave traces of mental magic on it — and took out the wand of the first hapless killer. It fit nicely in his palm, releasing a few sparks.       Somewhere on the edge of consciousness flashed the thought that it was funny — he had demolished half of Ollivander’s shop back in the day before finding his phoenix feather one, and here the wand of the man he killed immediately recognized him as its new owner. But without thinking too much about it, Tom pointed the wand at Morfin’s face and began altering his memory, inserting images of Tom killing the Riddles himself. Next came a Confundus Charm, prompting Morfin Gaunt to share his exploits with the Ministry and thumb his nose at them.       Double checking his work, Tom pulled the Gaunt family ring that Morfin was very proud of, according to his memories, off his uncle’s finger as a memento for himself of this wonderful evening. After cleaning it with charms, he put it on his finger and left the shack. He really wished he’d never have to return to this goddamn Little Hangleton again.       Tom went outside and walked away from the hut so as not to leave any traces, then apparated to London. It was at the very limits of his abilities and consumed a huge amount of energy, but taking muggle transportation and hitchhiking again was beyond him. Finding himself in a familiar secluded alley a block from the orphanage, he listened intently, then peeked out at the street. It seemed quiet, though deserted. Apparently the Luftwaffe had done without the usual bombing today.       The raids were less frequent now than they were two years ago. Tom recalled with revulsion how after returning from Hogwarts after third year, where he had thankfully weathered the Blitz, he had been forced to spend some nights in the nearest bomb shelter, and days along with the other orphanage children helping dig through the rubble of collapsed buildings and carry away corpses. When he was in London, he had already developed the habit of listening for the air raid siren; the sounds of approaching bomber planes and exploding shells had become disgustingly familiar.       The stupid muggles were destroying their own world. There were so many of them, they had such weapons, that all the wizards could do was go underground. Tom swallowed his pride and practically begged Headmaster Dippet every June to let him stay at Hogwarts over the summer holidays too, but he was refused time after time. As if the old man didn’t know what was going on in the muggle world.       Most wizards, especially purebloods, had the means to shield themselves from the war. They could conceal their estates with disguise, muggle-repelling and protective charms, rent a flat in the magically hidden Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade or Tinworth. Fortunately Grindelwald, who had entered the war on behalf of wizards, for some unknown reason did not stick his nose into England, preferring to run riot and crush dissenters on the continent. Grind them into a thin bloody pancake, leaving no one a chance to magically oppose Hitler.       Tom, however, had no way to practise magic outside of school, nor money to rent a flat, so he was forced to return to the hated Wool’s orphanage. Now he had an unregistered wand, thanks to which he could do magic, but the Trace still hung over the orphanage as his place of residence. As if obeying the Statute of Secrecy, not surviving the chaos going on around them, was the top priority. Tom sighed in irritation — if he were in charge, he wouldn’t do such foolish things. They would fear him, not the other way around.       Once again checking that his clothes were in order, he regretfully put his wand in his bag and headed toward Wool’s orphanage.

      ***

      Tom had lived alone in his separate room for a while now. His reluctant roommates, who’d gotten used to his character and abilities that first year, had rather quickly remembered it all. Though magic outside of Hogwarts was prohibited, young Tom was quite resourceful. And the cold tip of a knife poking at the jugular vein on the hapless opponent’s neck quickly convinced them that picking a fight with the strange unprincipled bastard wasn’t worth it. So the other kids readily squeezed together when he returned for the summer holidays.       Tom slipped into his room down the corridor, waiting around the corner until the duty matron had passed by. He didn’t need any lectures about curfew, he knew it all perfectly well without them. And sometimes he even regretted not having the slightest ability for divination — it would’ve come in handy to know where the next bomb would drop.       In his room, Tom turned on the desk lamp, habitually covering the windows for light camouflage, and laid out on the old battered desk, chipped by a couple generations of orphanage kids, his haul for today: a wand, which was very timely; a book from the future, which intrigued him considerably; and of course the most valuable and unique artefact — a time turner. Time turners were a great rarity, with only a few specimens held by the Department of Mysteries, used primarily for research. And this time turner, able to move decades through time, was probably the most precious possession in the wizarding world right now.       Tom picked up the trophy wand, examining it properly in the light for the first time. He wasn’t well-versed in wand woods, so he couldn’t say exactly what it was made of. He could only guess by the light colour and distinct stripes that it was some kind of conifer wood. The wand was quite rigid, sturdy and lightweight. He waved a hand over it, trying to sense the magic — something coarser than the phoenix feather in his own wand. If this was the work of the Ollivander family, whoever among them was making wands in 2000, then most likely a dragon heartstring core. Good thing it wasn’t a unicorn hair, such a core would resist dark magic. Shrugging, he set the wand aside, considering it a satisfactory acquisition. At least it handled mental magic and apparition excellently, obeying him unconditionally.       He took the time turner in hand, thoughtfully turning the rings with his fingers. He would need to examine this artefact more closely, but not here, not under the Trace — it would require diagnostic charms. From the exterior alone he couldn’t tell how the time displacement was set (surely it didn’t need to be spun several dozen turns?), nor understand the mechanism. Tom put the time turner next to the wand, deciding to deal with it tomorrow (or already today? he’d returned after midnight), and pulled the last, most intriguing item to him.       His own face looked out from the book cover. A thin, fake smile on the lips, more resembling a smirk. Tom ran his fingers enchantedly over his sharp cheekbones on the thick glossy cardboard and opened the book, perusing the contents. The author’s foreword spanned fifty pages, this Rita Skeeter was clearly besotted with herself. Next came the actual biography of Tom himself — his real parents, childhood, youth, becoming the Dark Lord. He smiled smugly — indeed, he would become the Dark Lord. Then he frowned at the next line — “The Dark Lord’s First Demise”. It was in the middle of the contents. Tom skimmed ahead — rebirth, seizing power, terror, final death.       Without thinking long, he flicked through the pages, found the chapter titled “First Demise” and skimmed the overwrought text diagonally — the author’s style was quite long-winded. The prophecy of the Chosen One, a photo of a ruined cottage, one Harry Potter, an infant he’d tried to kill and from whom the Killing Curse rebounded directly at him.       Tom drummed his fingers on the glossy page with the photo of the year-old child with the distinctive lightning bolt scar on his forehead, identical in shape to the motion of a wand casting Avada Kedavra. He hadn’t heard of such precedents before, evidently why he wasn’t prepared for this turn of events. That he had come to kill an infant didn’t surprise him — it’s exactly what he would have done after hearing such a prophecy. Interestingly, now that he knew about this from the book, wouldn’t it change the future? Since knowing the Curse would rebound, he wouldn’t repeat his mistake. He had many years ahead to think of an alternative method of murder. He could at least stick a knife in.       Tom leafed further through the book, skipping over several heart-wrenching pages eulogising the heroic infant, and stopped at the chapter “Rebirth”. He smiled satisfied — evidently he had achieved some success in the matter of immortality, his research into horcruxes hadn’t been in vain. And then he froze, looking at the next page, as the smile slowly faded from his lips.       The one staring at him with red eyes from the colour photograph could hardly be called human. Pale blue skin stretched tight over the skull, with dark blue, almost black veins showing through. Instead of a nose there were just two holes, as if someone had sliced it off. The face was no longer human, but resembled a reptile; it looked as if it had stepped off the pages of the muggle horror tales the caretakers at the orphanage would sometimes use to frighten the children, thinking it instilled morals.       Swallowing with difficulty the lump that had formed in his throat, Tom turned the page. The author explained his appearance as the result of performing the darkest rituals, inflicting irreparable damage on body and soul. She had neatly skirted around the topic of horcruxes, which belonged to such dark arts they weren’t mentioned in many dark magic grimoires, let alone a populist book aimed at housewives.       Tom didn’t consider himself a narcissistic coxcomb, but saw his appearance as something that went without saying and was at times useful — beautiful people were better at ingratiating themselves with others, eliciting unfounded, especially in his case, trust. But this… That creature depicted in the photo… He hadn’t planned on anything like it.       He leafed through another hundred pages, flipping to the chapter “Final Death.” The photographs of the half-ruined Hogwarts — his home — stirred an odd sense of unease in his heart that he couldn’t classify. The duel with Harry Potter, who had again miraculously survived the Killing Curse, which ended in the Dark Lord’s defeat, completely ruined his spirits. What had all those transformations been for if he couldn’t even best a half-trained boy?       For some time Tom sat in a stupor. He buried his hands in his hair, twisted his fingers, bit his lips, lost in thought. Such nervous tension was completely unlike him. Finally, an hour later, he shook off the daze and, heavily sighing, opened the book to the first page, pulled his own enchanted diary in a black leather binding and quill toward himself. It seemed he wouldn’t be going to bed tonight.       By morning some things had become clear, including the attempts on his life by his hapless would-be assassins. Rita Skeeter, with Harry Potter’s help — he had shared this with none other than Albus-goddamned-Dumbledore, of course — had dug up information about the murder of the Riddles. It was one of the first precise dates given in the book when young Tom wasn’t at Hogwarts or the orphanage, where attacking him was obviously too complicated and dangerous. So three people, albeit with a few years between them, had tried to kill him on that very day in order to prevent subsequent events that had resulted in a mountain of corpses.       Perhaps they even believed themselves noble for not deciding to attack Tom earlier in his childhood — it was on this day that he officially became a murderer. And now it wasn’t shameful to get rid of him, likely feeling like knights in shining armour while doing it. Even the dimwitted mudblood in a muggle t-shirt, who hadn’t even bothered to dress according to the time he was travelling to, probably fancied himself as a crusader against universal evil. Tom didn’t understand it himself — it would have been much simpler to kill the child, but for some reason no one could bring themselves to do it.       However, the appearance of time travellers left interesting questions — the book said nothing about anything like it, but the cause could have been the author’s lack of information. Was this a typical time loop, where events are immutable, or had these people somehow influenced the past by arriving here? Had the future changed because Tom now had the book with his biography and the time turner? He hoped so. Dying from the ricochet of his own Killing Curses in a second go-around wasn’t part of his plans.       He pensively ran his fingers over the open page with his own face, which had become so terribly inhuman. It seemed horcruxes had been a poor path to eternal life, since they didn’t save him anyway, only deformed him. It remained unclear whether they had affected his magical power. The book mentioned a duel with Dumbledore at the Ministry of Magic in June 1996, from which he had fled in shame. Could he really not defeat a centenarian? He stared thoughtfully for a long time at the photo of the destroyed Atrium and his aged former Transfiguration professor leaning over the unconscious Harry Potter lying among shards of glass. For how many years could Tom not deal with either the old man or the boy? It seemed unbelievable.       He reached into his bag’s pocket and pulled out another trophy from today that he had nearly forgotten about — the Ministry ID badge. It looked exactly as Tom remembered from that one time he had been brought to the Ministry for bureaucratic procedures before Hogwarts. The clerks hadn’t changed security protocols for decades, and the badge might work in the two thousands as it did now, in this time… Or in 1996.       Tom got up from his chair and stretched. Outside the window dawn was breaking, the first rays of sunlight already piercing through the heavy curtains. A plan was gradually taking shape. He had to see everything with his own eyes. If Lord Voldemort, his future self, really was such a pitiful sight, then he would find a way to fix it all. He would find a way to change his own unfortunate fate.