Death in the mask

      Since Tom decided to stay in the nineties, time had flown by at the speed of a brand new broomstick. Though he hadn’t exactly made the decision himself, he preferred not to dwell on that for now. On the other hand, who else if not him? An older version, sure, but still undeniably himself. He understood perfectly that fifty years of experience left their mark, and even if some of his future self’s choices seemed questionable at the moment, he likely just didn’t see the full picture yet.       And he was trying to see it. Over July and August he had studied all the textbooks from the past five years to determine what had changed in the educational approach, if he had any gaps in knowledge. Having money was no longer an issue — his newly acquired “father” had provided a hefty purse of gold and an open invitation to ask for anything needed.       For secrecy’s sake, he continued living with Slughorn, who welcomed the company, especially Tom’s cooking skills — the old man no longer had to make the effort himself. And there was no need to attract undue attention by staying too often at the Gaunts' manor, which he shouldn’t be associated with. In the past months he had only visited a few times, to talk and practise duelling with his older self. He didn’t consider himself a novice at combat magic and spells, but Gaunt’s skills were impressive.       Close your eyes. Feel the air around you. Your body has no boundaries, you are the air, you are smoke. You expand, rise up, nothing contains your magic.       And he did it. In the second lesson, when he opened his eyes, he was floating near the ceiling. Absolutely weightless, fingers barely visible — his body’s edges wavered indistinctly, clothes now swirling black smoke, and he…floated. No broom, just a wand held in his hand. He turned onto his back, looping around the massive chandelier in the centre of the ballroom that had become a duelling hall tonight. Better than swimming — no resistance from the environment, no body weight even if greatly reduced.       He gently spiralled downward, somersaulting near the floor, curling up and landing on his feet on the wooden parquet. The black smoke reentered his body, absorbed into the stark white skin, making him whole again. And the next moment he saw the satisfied blue eyes before him — his own eyes. He noticed his own unrestrained joy reflected in them, and it was exquisitely pleasurable… But soon the bright feeling dissipated without a trace, leaving behind the usual even greyness.       Bellatrix’s attention was flattering too: at dinner following the practice, the woman kept throwing interested looks at him across the table. He didn’t fully understand why — perhaps she was just bored and craved amusement. Gaunt’s reaction was also puzzling — people usually got jealous in such cases, yet he seemed entertained by the situation, even deriving a certain enjoyment from it. Though it was probably foolish to be jealous of oneself, wasn’t it? Tom had little grasp of relationships with women, let alone such subtle intricacies — they made far less sense to him than ancient Sumerian cuneiform.       The chandelier was unlit today, the room dimly lit only by candelabras in the corners and a couple thick silver candlesticks with half-melted candles on the long dark wooden table. Their flickering softened Bellatrix’s features, making her appear fifteen years younger, almost girlish. In this lighting Gaunt had also lost his sternness, fire glimmers dancing on his face, bringing it vividly to life and emphasising his similarity to Tom himself, who couldn’t help admiring the view.       As always, neither cared for alcohol — only Bella enjoyed the red wine, appearing nearly black in the dimness, thickly coating the glass sides. Tom finished his tea from the thin cup with Chinese patterns on the undoubtedly expensive porcelain. After dinner he could talk with Gaunt for a while, sitting by the fireplace. Conversing with someone more intelligent than himself was a rare pleasure, or rather never before experienced. He looked pensively at the flames, listening intently.       ”…intent is crucial in blood magic, no precise incantations, the spell only focuses your mind…”       Slender fingers stroking his hair interrupted this pleasant detachment. He glanced up quizzically at Bellatrix — hadn’t even noticed her circle the table to stand right beside him. He must have completely relaxed. Her eyes sparkled slyly, or maybe that was just the firelight dancing in them. The next instant the woman leaned a hand on his shoulder and smoothly lowered herself to sit sideways on his lap. Tom stared at her, shocked, then turned a bewildered gaze to Gaunt for some kind of explanation. But the man watched the scene with interest, a hint of amusement in his eyes.       “Maybe I could teach you something too, baby?” Bellatrix purred in his ear, nearly brushing his lips with hers, searing him with her breath. “I’ve always wanted to corrupt an innocent young man…”       “Then you’ve got the wrong address.”       Tom tried shifting away, though rather difficult with the woman in his lap and his back to the chair. He had no idea what to do — the older Gaunt clearly wouldn’t be any help, clearly enjoying the show. Tom was already irritated by the absurd situation he’d ended up in, and now angry, oddly enough, at himself.       To his relief, Bellatrix sighed and stood up after several seconds. Gaunt waved invitingly and she crossed the three metres between them, settling onto his lap instead. She didn’t seem particularly upset by the change in position, gazing at her husband adoringly.       “Don’t let it trouble you…” Gaunt said casually, turning to the woman.       His hand boldly slid into Bellatrix’s hair, forcefully pulling her head back, insistently claiming her lips. His other hand grasped her calf below the hem, slowly sliding up her leg, gathering more and more skirt. Fingers dug sharply into the milky thigh, sinking into flesh. In the dimness the man reminded Tom eerily of himself, and watching him so intimately at such a close distance was…strange and thrilling. That rough gesture, fist twisting in the black hair, yanking her head back to expose the helpless neck, tongue trailing along it… All of it struck some chord within, awakened an unfamiliar feeling in his chest.       Tom nervously licked his lips, wondering if he should avert his gaze in such a situation, as people did — normal people — to preserve decency. Though it oddly felt like this show was meant for his eyes specifically, and there was little decency or normality in this room. So he didn’t bother with excessive modesty.       He continued observing his own fingers' movements over Bellatrix’s thin black lace underwear from the side. The firelight glimmering on his own features, now clearly aroused. Paradoxically, it made him look even more beautiful — not an ideal but cold marble statue, instead something dark and demonic appeared in his features. He had never seen such an expression on his own face and it fascinated, drew him in. The explicit scene unfolding, the evident similarity to himself, it all quickened his breath far more than the kisses minutes earlier.       ”…you’ll learn to enjoy it,” Gaunt finally detached himself from Bellatrix, raising scintillating eyes to Tom in the dimness. He had to concentrate to remember the beginning of the sentence. “Without even killing anyone. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? So nice watching life drain away under your fingers… By your will, your design.”       The voice was low and soft, mesmerising. Those transparent eyes seemed to see right through him, gaze penetrating below the surface. Tom only looked at the fist still tangled in Bellatrix’s hair. She breathed heavily, biting her lips.       Heat suddenly scorched his cheeks. His own reaction was unexpected and he certainly didn’t want to display it, especially not to someone so like himself yet also much older and more experienced. He needed to figure this out alone first. Besides, there was an odd sense of being toyed with in incomprehensible games. Tom slowly got to his feet, automatically straightening his trousers.       “I think I’ll head to bed,” he said, startled by the sudden hoarseness of his voice. He retreated toward the door. “Leave you two alone.”       “As you wish,” Gaunt shrugged casually. “Sorry, won’t show you out — something far more interesting just came up.”       Tom left the dining room without looking back, only hearing Bellatrix’s pleased moan and the click of the door lock behind him.       

***

      The chopping knife tapped steadily on the cutting board as Tom’s thoughts wandered. He surveyed the neat, nearly identical chicken pieces and glanced at the colour photo in the open muggle cookbook with the recipe. He hadn’t cooked dishes from Indian, or rather Anglo-Indian, cuisine before. The orphanage favoured meals with minimal ingredients and maximum nutrition, not to mention easiest preparation.       However, before leaving for Hogwarts where the elves usually made fairly traditional fare, Slughorn had a craving for something exotic. So Tom, playing the model boy, had to figure out chicken tikka masala. It didn’t look overly complicated, if you didn’t think too hard about the odd blend of Indian spices and coconut milk. Tom had never tasted any of it before and had little idea what the end result should be.       But cooking allowed time to ponder further actions. He didn’t really understand how to gain Dumbledore’s trust when the man had always been wary of him. Perhaps he should get close to people in the Headmaster’s inner circle first. He had browsed the files on known Order of the Phoenix members and their Hogwarts relatives in Gaunt’s office, jotting down key names in his enchanted diary.       But how to get close to them when they were all too…Gryffindor? None would trust a Slytherin. At least not initially, until he charmed them. He probably just had to be as he was used to appearing, oozing visible friendliness, and he could gradually achieve the desired result. Tom knew well how his charm affected others. Especially women…sometimes overly so.       Which brought his thoughts back to the recent dinner scene with the Gaunts. He wondered what the hell had even happened there? But ultimately concluded the “father” and wife had simply grown bored and decided to entertain themselves that way. How long had they been married, twenty years? He couldn’t imagine seeing the same face daily for two decades. And young Tom was as “theirs” as could be, far closer than so-called friends. But another question interested him more — what the hell had he enjoyed about it?       He was always honest with himself, so admitted a certain sensual response had been stirred. Of course, murder still topped his range of emotional reactions — thoughts periodically returned to the memory of a blood-drained body at his feet. A life extinguished only because Tom willed it, precisely how he desired. In that moment he had felt elation, uplift, a sense of the universe’s mysteries revealed… Which then drained away, leaving his soul empty again when the emotions ebbed.       He had to acknowledge observing a distantly similar reaction that memorable evening at the Gaunts'. Not personally experiencing, but seeing the same power over another’s body and emotions from the outside. And if before sex had seemed foolish meaningless contortions with nothing of interest, this act of control, the force subjugating another, held an allure. What would he himself do if a person was fully and absolutely under his power? Kill for pleasure again? Or delight in his mastery, the victim’s submission, through new ways?       A finger suddenly seared with pain. Tom stared incredulously at the knife cut and the thin stream of blood running down his palm. He hadn’t cut himself cooking or brewing in years, handling the blade with near virtuosity. He raised his hand to slow the bleeding, gazing at the red zigzag marrying the white skin, sliding toward the rolled-up shirtsleeve.       “Oh dear boy, let me fix that right up!” Slughorn materialised in the kitchen, jolting him from his trance. “Have to be careful with sharp knives.”       Silently, Tom extended his hand and the professor lightly tapped it with his wand, healing the cut. As the blood cleared from his palm, Tom oddly felt a strange disappointment.       “Coming along alright?” Slughorn instantly lost interest in the mended appendage, nudging up to the stove. He dipped a spoon in the bubbling pan, blew on the thick sauce, and tasted it. “Mmm, not bad, though I’d add a touch more spice.”       Deftly he tossed another spoon of garam masala into the shallow pot, stirred, and sampled again, face blissful. Behind his back, Tom gritted his teeth, appreciating how unerringly the professor had snatched the needed spice pouch — the old man wasn’t as helpless domestically as he pretended when foisting all household tasks on his guest like some damned elf. Tom turned away and skewered the meat onto wooden sticks with an expression as if the poor chicken had personally insulted him.       

***

      The Hogwarts Express platform seemed unchanged. White steam from the engine swirled around the people bustling about, while the train’s red side already disappeared into the haze a few dozen metres ahead. Tom nimbly steered the trolley with two trunks, weaving through the noisy crowd of students and families. He irritably circled around a ginger brood occupying half the platform width with their clucking matron. Somewhere behind, Slughorn puffed along.       “Compartment C, Tom,” the old man choked out, stopping to mop his brow. “Here we are.”       “You’re unchanging, Professor,” Tom smiled politely, levitating the trunks onto the train. Last week he had gone shopping in Diagon Alley, packing his new case with many necessary school things and, of course, books.       “I do so love riding the Hogwarts Express, a little weakness of mine. And I can collect all the fresh summer gossip before it reaches the school gates,” Slughorn winked, slowly mounting the steps. “You’ll keep me company?”       “Of course, Professor,” Tom answered politely. He suppressed the urge to sting the massive arse wobbling before him. Another day in Slughorn’s company after barely enduring two months — what could be better? But cordial relations with the Head of House and his connections were worth tolerating some inconveniences.       

***

      The train swayed gently as it departed. House-elves wrapped in Hogwarts towels Apparated in and busily began setting food on the table before a ponderously belly-rubbing professor. Tom counted the invitations Slughorn sorted through his hands. He raised his wand and ever so carefully cast an Extension Charm on the compartment, so it could fit the planned ten people. After the old man’s awed sigh, he thought for a moment then conjured a white tablecloth directly under the laid out dishes, replacing the sparse cheap wall lamps with elegant antique horns. A final wand flick transfigured the cheap seat fabric into burgundy velvet.       “Oh, Tom, your taste and magic talent are unmatched! Even I couldn’t cast such a flawless Extension Charm!” the professor paid a compliment of dubious merit in Tom’s view. He turned to the sliding door, “Ah, Harry my boy, come in, have a seat!”       “Hermione says she’ll be late — prefect duties, you understand…” Potter mumbled awkwardly, plopping down on a free spot. He looked around the compartment. “Quite cosy here today.”       “All thanks to Tom,” Slughorn smiled. Potter sullenly nodded at Tom who politely forced a return smile and sat across from him, to the potions master’s right. Trying not to grip his wand too tightly, to avoid revealing how desperately he longed to shove it in Potter’s eye. “How is your mother?”       “Wonderful! Though I spent the last week at Sirius’s in London, so she could…” the boy trailed off. “Nevermind. His place is more convenient for the station than Godric’s Hollow anyway.”       “How is Mr. Black? Our shining star! Pity he wasn’t in my House…”       “But you got the baby brother,” the redheaded girl who followed Potter rolled her eyes. The compartment gradually filled with people. “All the girls in my year pine for Professor Black. 'Oh, Professor Black this, Professor Black that…'”       “Miss Ginny Weasley’s tongue remains sharp,” Slughorn chuckled benignly. “No doubt you chose Ancient Runes too?”       “Purely academic interest,” the redhead grunted. She sat by Potter across from Tom, shooting the unfamiliar boy a curious look.       “Sirius just got back from Africa, he had an amusing business there…” Potter began recounting when some blonde girl cut in.       “Oh Harry, did you see Professor Regulus Black over the holidays?”       Tom was getting angry — he desperately wanted to hear about Order member Sirius Black, but that clearly wasn’t happening.       “Yeah, Melinda,” Potter nodded politely, interrupted again. “The Blacks' London house where I stayed actually belongs to Regulus per their mother’s will. He and Sirius have a bit of a strained relationship but Reg offered his brother to live there as long as he wants. Sirius is gone most of the time anyway and Regulus spends much of the year at Hogwarts…”       Weasley soundlessly mouthed “Oh Reggie” behind her palm, swooning mockingly at the enrapt Melinda. Tom, observing the spectacle, snorted into his teacup.       So Walburga had passed — what a pity. But she had left behind two very different sons. Perhaps he could get to Sirius through the younger brother, Tom made a mental note. Or through Potter, though he preferred not to think about that now.       “Who’s this?” the dark-skinned boy in the second-to-last seat by the door rather rudely jerked his chin at Tom. It took effort not to curl his lip at the disregard for etiquette. Professor Slughorn, in contrast, drew himself up proudly — clearly awaited the chance for a suitably dramatic introduction.       “Fortuitous timing, Blaise. Meet your future classmate, my third cousin twice removed Tom Riddle. Transferred from Durmstrang due to family circumstances and joining sixth year in Slytherin House. An extraordinarily gifted young man, truly extraordinary. The Extension Charm and advanced Transfiguration you’re currently witnessing are in fact his work,” Slughorn concluded proudly as if it were his own achievement. Weasley thoughtfully tapped a crystal prism on the lamp by her head.       “But Extension Charms are N.E.W.T. level!” came another voice from the entrance. All turned to the girl frozen in the doorway, bushy brown hair exploding around her head.       “More talented students in Slytherin than Gryffindor, Granger,” the blond who appeared behind her shoulder sneered. He brazenly nudged past her into the compartment.       “Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger, I see you’ve finished the initial patrol? Please, have a seat, our esteemed prefects, rest up, get some food. Crabbe, a pheasant bit for you?”       “Thank you, sir,” the hulking boy mumbled through the baked pheasant leg he’d been gnawing without invitation.       Granger took the furthest spot by the door, face wary as if fearing the Charms might suddenly collapse. She suspiciously poked the velvet seat padding. Malfoy exchanged restrained nods with Tom.       “How is your uncle Tiberius?” Slughorn meanwhile continued questioning the boy. Pushing his meat around the plate pensively, Tom listened intently, trying to absorb all available new information. The train rocked steadily, exactly as it had fifty years prior, relentlessly carrying him to the greatest place on earth. To Hogwarts.