Death in the mask

      The cold blade tapped evenly against the cutting board, the motions honed to automatism. Tom saw no real difference between chopping potions ingredients like flobberworms or sopophorous beans and chopping vegetables in the orphanage kitchen where he had kitchen duty today. At least potatoes didn’t try to jump out from under the knife and scurry around the room, and the soup pot was unlikely to explode if you threw in an extra carrot. So unlike Potions lessons, one hundred percent concentration was not required, and he could think about other things.       “What’s the matter, Riddle, didn’t sleep well?” Jacob, chopping vegetables next to him, nudged him in the shoulder. “Something must have kept you from sleeping on your stomach, eh?” he said suggestively with a wink.       Tom just shrugged. He couldn’t appreciate such jokes, although he knew what they meant. But where and why you were supposed to laugh remained beyond his comprehension. The other boys seemed to go crazy from the hormones pounding in their heads, sex was a constant topic of jokes, whispers, and obscene drawings passed around furtively under cover of darkness.       Feeling someone’s gaze, Tom looked up and saw Madeleine quickly look away, scrubbing a carrot at the opposite end of the table. The girls were no exception to this base turmoil — when so many teenagers of the opposite sex lived together, no matter how much you chased them and separated them by floors, someone would still be climbing through windows into each other’s rooms, risking falling into the prickly bushes, or sneaking past the watchful eyes of the matrons. Indifferently looking away from the now flushed girl, Tom dumped the chopped potatoes into a large bubbling pot.       Things were simpler at Hogwarts, where fear of scandal kept most betrothed pureblood witches in line. Half-bloods, of course, managed to meet boys over the course of their studies, some more than once. The luckiest found themselves a promising groom. Tom didn’t even pay attention to what the Mudbloods were up to.       A few girls made eyes at him as well, as far as he could classify the sidelong glances and suddenly flushing cheeks, but he didn’t get involved with anyone — he saw no point. Moreover, it was even dangerous in his position. Polite, friendly interaction he had learned to fake very well, from childhood he had carefully studied how others behaved. But maintaining the mask during close personal interaction would be beyond his abilities, and if it fell and the truth about his stark difference from others surfaced — there would be no avoiding problems.       Of course, there were unpleasant surprises, like that incident with Walburga Black, who had overindulged at Slughorn’s party. Tom, the only one who remained sober, was walking the girl to the Slytherin common room, and it turned out she was not as drunk as she was trying to seem. She dragged him into a dark corner behind the suits of armour, and he couldn’t come up with another way out of such a strange situation except to pretend he liked the wet kisses and someone else’s tongue in his mouth. And then quickly escaped, pretending he had heard footsteps. And for a long time afterward, he spat out the hated alcoholic aftertaste.       All the Blacks were impulsive, slightly mad characters. Tom did not plan on arguing with one — he knew the offence rejection would cause. Luckily, the incident was a one-time thing — after all, Walburga was betrothed and not a complete fool, while Riddle remained a half-blood of unknown parentage in people’s eyes, despite all his talents. Tom nipped any other girls' advances in the bud, not even so much consciously as sincerely not understanding subtle hints. And sometimes pretending not to, of course.       With combined efforts the soup was finally ready, and the older children on duty began handing out food to the younger ones lined up for lunch. Of course, such thin gruel with barely any meat was no match for the variety of delicacies at Hogwarts and was not the best choice for growing bodies that needed fortified nutrition and building blocks. But there was no other source during wartime in a city undergoing bombing. It was good that there was at least this.       After quickly eating the soup he had helped make, Tom collected the dirty dishes left by the children and took them to the kitchen. He dumped the bowls in the sink in front of Madeleine, smiled charmingly at her, and considered his mission for the day accomplished. He went to his room to get his bag, already prepared. He was glad once again for his own foresight — he had cast Muggle-repelling Charms on the bag and trunk ahead of time so no one at the orphanage, even if they went into his room, would touch his personal belongings.       With the bag over his shoulder, he slipped out of the building and headed for that quiet dead end he had Apparated to last night. There were still a couple hours until around 5 pm, the expected start of the raids, but only rare passersby were wandering the street already. Now he had an unregistered wand on hand, some protection if bombs started raining from the sky, though not one hundred percent reliable.       Once in the dead end, the first thing Tom did was wave his wand, establishing a barrier of Disillusionment and Distraction Charms at the entrance, then cast an Invigoration Charm on himself. He hadn’t even felt how tired he was until the magically boosted neural signals ran through his body with familiar vigour and his eyes stopped drooping. Taking a deep breath, involuntarily sucking in the dusty air, Tom transfigured a soft couch out of the debris lying against the wall. Settling onto it, he took out the trophy Time Turner and his beloved enchanted diary, in which he had already copied all the useful information from Rita Skeeter’s book, ploughing through the thousand-page tearjerker.       Tom spent some more time turning the Time Turner enchantingly in his hands, examining the gold disk covered in runes with the built-in miniature hourglass, and the two mobile rings encircling the artefact. Then he launched diagnostic spells on it and stared spellbound at the results — an elegant lacework of magic. He had never held a Time Turner like this before. Shaking off the numbness, he took out his diary and began writing down the Charms he knew and sketching the unknown ones.       After about an hour the picture was complete. The travel, it seemed, was triggered by the artefact owner’s magical impulse. Tom decided it should be enough to point his wand at the Time Turner and mentally state the required date. It did not seem the precision allowed setting a specific hour, so the artefact must transport the user to the same time of day they were currently in.       For a while Tom deliberated on whether the Time Turner allowed travel into the future. After all, the modern Time Turners he knew only sent you into the past, and you had to “catch up” to the present moment. But after some thought he decided that most likely — yes. Otherwise the hapless assassins would hardly have come so lightly equipped, without any belongings. They clearly did not plan on lingering in this time for long, only the last one had bothered with minimal camouflage. Not that it helped him…       He glanced at the diary entry: “Battle at the Ministry of Magic — night of June 18–19, 1996.” When he decided to move through time, it was best to do so in the evening, so as not to wander pointlessly in someone else’s time. He just had to wait until the Hogwarts students led by Potter arrived at the visitors' entrance on thestrals and follow them through the employees' entrance, located, as far as he knew, in the adjacent building, disguised as an ordinary entrance. He had the ID badge, and the Death Eaters would take care of security. His future Death Eaters. The main thing was to be careful and not run into his future self. Although his future self should remember his 1943 trip to 1996, right? There was hope he would recall it and not casually Avada him in passing.       He sank into his thoughts, into planning, and did not even notice when the Invigoration Charm wore off and he was overcome by drowsiness. The awakening was the most unpleasant imaginable — the familiar low rumble burst into his ears. Tom jumped up, jerking awake — he needed shelter, quick! Something sharp dug into his lower back at the awkward movement. He reflexively grabbed his wand, jumped to his feet and leapt to the side, pointing his weapon at the silhouette on the ground, vague in the dusk that had fallen over London. But it turned out to just be debris that he had ended up on somehow. Gradually his brain started working and the picture came together — he had fallen asleep on the transfigured couch, and while he slept, the briefly imparted energy had run out and the debris had regained its former unsightly form. Meanwhile, evening had arrived, quite late judging by the low light level, or rather its absence. He glanced briefly at his wristwatch, a gift from Lestrange last Christmas, his only expensive possession. Nine in the evening, he had slept for almost five hours.       Shaking his head, he listened — the droning of planes was audible, coming, as expected, from the south, but already quite close. If he ran, then maybe he could make it to the orphanage bomb shelter. If they hadn’t sealed the doors yet… Or else he would end up right under the exploding shells. Without wasting time scolding himself, he quickly started thinking, trying to find a way out.       He could Apparate, but where? He couldn’t go right into the bomb shelter, the Ministry would immediately snap him up for doing magic in front of so many witnesses. He didn’t know all that many places around London, not in the city itself. He could try jumping to the coast where they had once gone hiking with the other orphans, and where in a dark cave he had scared Amy and Dennis half to death by putting on a little magic show for them. But that was quite far, and he didn’t even have an Apparition licence yet. And although he could Apparate well, he soberly assessed his abilities — he could easily Splinch himself over such a distance.       There was the option of trying to set up a protective dome, but decent spells would take time and strength, and Tom wasn’t sure who would win: the hastily erected dome or five hundred kilograms of TNT in a German bomber’s bomb.       The ground shook under his feet from the first explosion, still somewhere in the distance, Tom clenched his fist in an attempt to concentrate and speed up his thought process. In addition to his own fingernails, something metallic dug into his palm. He held up his hand and stared at the Time Turner he was clutching in his fist, which he had apparently fallen asleep holding. He hadn’t planned on going to the future right today… But it was a way out of this situation and an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.       The next blast shook the ground noticeably harder. The droning in the air was approaching, mixing with a whistling sound. Hesitating no more, Tom put the chain around his neck and, with a quick motion making sure his bag with all his most valuable things was still slung over his shoulder, raised his wand. He paused for a second — so unlike him, without a plan, without preparation, on impulse. But there was no other choice. He aimed his wand at the Time Turner he was holding between two fingers by the winding crown and clearly pronounced in his mind: “June 18, 1996.”       There was a flash, the glow quickly expanded into a sphere around him, cutting him off from the rest of the space. The artefact’s rings began spinning wildly, the glowing ball spun in unison. A sudden droning drowned out the sounds of the approaching planes, penetrating the eardrums, drilling into the brain, pressing on the ears. The space around began flashing by at a terrifying speed. “I hope they don’t build anything on this spot in the next fifty years,” managed to flash through his mind, and then the sphere collapsed into a blindingly bright point and disappeared from the current location, or rather from the current moment. Tom Riddle did not see the SC1000 bomber’s bomb land on the quiet dead end, turning it into a blackened crater strewn with brick debris.       

***

      The swirling around stopped. Colourful spots swam in his vision. Tom slowly blinked, chasing them away and readjusting to the surrounding dusk. The trip had definitely gone successfully. This was hinted at by his intact limbs, not stuck in any object or building, as well as the tall metal and glass structure five metres ahead. Tom craned his neck, staring enchanted at the multi-story building that receded high overhead, then took a couple steps back, trying to see where this house’s roof ended.       A loud honk struck his eardrums, and Tom jumped back, spun around, tightly gripping his wand.       “Watch where you’re going!” a dark-skinned man who had leaned out of the braking car’s window yelled at him. Tom struggled to stop his hand that had already started raising his weapon.       “Sorry,” he mumbled, backing away from the edge of the roadway he had inadvertently stepped onto. The Indian sized him up with a hostile gaze and drove on down the wide street. Only now did Tom realise the droning no longer belonged to German planes but numerous cars speeding down the street, looking like streamlined giant soap bubbles on wheels.       Shaking his head, Tom shoved his wand into his bag and tucked the Time Turner hanging around his neck under his shirt. He decided to focus on his task instead of being distracted by trifles. He had to get to the Ministry of Magic. He quickly glanced at his watch — still nine in the evening. About an hour left.       Picking out a couple familiar buildings on the street that had not been rebuilt since the 1940s, Tom figured out where everything was located and headed toward the nearest subway entrance. It had to still be functioning at this time, right?       The metro station was right where it always was, and he felt relieved when he went underground and inhaled the familiar dryish smell. It seemed completely unchanged after five decades. Tom meditated briefly in front of the map of lines that had grown several fold, then cast a Confundus Charm on the turnstile at the entrance and went inside. Casting spells while trying to aim his wand from the bag proved extremely inconvenient, but there was nowhere else to hide it — the warm weather allowed just a shirt and trousers. And it wasn’t as if he would wear, for example, robes in central London.       At Charing Cross station he got off and headed toward Whitehall Street. There was still half an hour left — just enough time to get there and pick an inconspicuous position. Luckily, the centre’s buildings were almost unchanged, everything looked familiar and ordinary. The country had clearly already recovered from the war, no German speech was audible around. So they had won, as Tom had supposed from a couple phrases in Rita Skeeter’s book mentioning Grindelwald’s defeat in a duel with Dumbledore. And transparently hinting that the reader vitally needed to buy another of her books, about Dumbledore himself, to learn some especially scandalous facts. Which did not interest Tom one bit.       Circling a noisy crowd of tourists, he grimaced, wondering how thestrals could land here? It didn’t look like the area was prepared or cleared in any way. Only when he approached the necessary phone booth did he feel the subtle boundary of Muggle-repelling Charms. Apparently this would provide cover.       He located the employees' entrance with his eyes, also disguised by magic from inquisitive Muggles and pretending to be an ordinary entrance, and chose a position not far away behind a tree, with a clear view of the visitors' entrance booth. With a short motion he cast Disillusionment Charms on himself — although it was late and employees should not be leaving anymore, caution was never excessive. He cast an alarm spell on the visitors' booth. The children wouldn’t notice it but now he definitely wouldn’t miss them even if they tried to conceal themselves with charms. The invisible Tom leaned against the tree, blending in completely, and started waiting.       The minute hand on the expensive watch moved very slowly, and even slower when he looked at it. Tourists still milled about on the street, though without crossing the boundary of the repelling charms. In the distance, Big Ben’s bell tolled ten times, and Tom automatically synchronised his wristwatch with it, which was a couple minutes slow. But even that did not speed up the gradually dragging time.       With the workday long over, the Ministry saw no more entries or exits. No thestrals landed from the sky. Only somewhere in the distance a company that had already managed to get sloshed at a bar struck up an uneven song, having now spilled out onto the street.       The bell tolled eleven times. Tom rubbed his gritty, tired eyes. Something had gone wrong. He pulled the book out of his bag, flipped to the right page, and made sure he had written down the date correctly — June 18. And today was June 18, he glanced at the newspaper stand by the metro entrance. Rita Skeeter claimed she had arrived with the other reporters at 11:30 pm, just by the end of the battle. All of them — both the students and the Death Eaters — should already be inside. However, no one had walked by Tom, he was certain of that.       Thoughtfully, he pulled the Ministry pass out of his bag pocket. All he had to do was go downstairs to make sure. Reinforcing the Disillusionment Charm with a touch of his wand to the back of his head, he turned on the spot and headed for the employees' entrance door. He slipped inside, looking around. Looked like an ordinary entrance on the outside, slightly more opulent than an average one, clad in marble, but what else could it be in the city centre? Except the stairs only went up to the first floor here. On the landing there were four doors, tall antique dark wood doors with curved brass handles decorated with scrollwork.       Tom approached the nearest door, examining it. Instead of a keyhole under the handle, there was a small depression in the metal plaque, shaped like an indented disc. Or a Ministry badge. He gave the door an experimental tug — it didn’t budge. He held the pass to the indentation, and the handle turned easily. He opened the door and appraisingly looked at the roiling dark haze ahead. Diagnostic spells only showed high magical energy concentration. Tom shrugged — he had already done an unusually high number of insane things today. One more, one less. He stepped forward.       The darkness flashed with green flames, and the next moment he was already stepping out of a fireplace into the Ministry Atrium. The completely empty Atrium, not counting the sleepy security wizard dozing in front of the transportation area exit. At the flaring fireplace he started for a moment but, not noticing anyone, sank back into his slumber. Odd that he hadn’t been taken out by the Death Eaters. Silently walking, Tom approached the giant well of the hall that descended several stories down, and stopped by the last fireplace so he could leave quickly if needed. Ahead, the Fountain of Magical Brethren shone golden. His future self’s battle with Dumbledore would take place somewhere around here.       He leaned against the cold black marble wall and once again switched to waiting mode, blankly looking at the space in front of him. However, his brain was working at full capacity in the meantime and came to a startling conclusion. For propriety’s sake, Tom waited until midnight, predictably not hearing any shouts or sounds of fighting, then stepped back into the fireplace. The security wizard started at the flaring flames again but Tom no longer saw this — he exited onto Whitehall Street without turning around.       On the street, he took out his wand and circled the phone booth, running diagnostics. Not a single trace of either wizards or magical creatures from the past few hours. Everything only confirmed the conclusion already reached.       There would be no battle at the Ministry today. He had finally understood what fatigue and surprise had caused to slip his mind — now that he already knew about the prophecy from the book, his adult self no longer needed to lure Potter to the Department of Mysteries. Thanks to getting his hands on the biography, he really had managed to change the future.