Death in the mask

      Tom walked past the bony horse’s dark flank, faintly reflecting the yellow lantern light on its smooth surface, and looked into the misty white eyes. He glanced at the deceptively thin leathery wings. Despite its unprepossessing appearance, this ugly beast could not only fly but also haul heavy load. What endurance and diligence hid beneath the horrible exterior of a thestral. Precisely the opposite of Tom himself — a greedy bloodthirsty monster lurked behind the charming mask.       “Oh, Riddle…” He first heard the familiar voice, then saw the shaggy black mop above the thin bony withers as his old not-so-pleasant acquaintance emerged from behind the carriage. Rubeus Hagrid was adjusting the harnesses on the winged horses, preparing them to bring students from the train to Hogwarts. “Can you see 'em now? Someone died?”       “I’ve seen much death,” Tom mused. He ran his fingertips over the slightly damp black skin. It felt rubbery to the touch. “As you know, where I’m from.”       “Oh, right, the war…” Hagrid shuffled and glanced around to ensure no one overheard. “Shouldn’t have mentioned that in public.”       “There have always been wars, Hagrid. Since the dawn of our days, they rage now and will continue until we all die out. It’s human nature, our instinct — to seize resources, destroy competitors. But knowing that doesn’t really help when bombs whistle overhead and next moment someone’s guts spill across the pavement…”       Tom headed for the carriage door, already irritated at his own verboseness. After a peaceful summer nearly alone, one day among teenagers had shaken his equilibrium.       “Yeh’re still just like always, exactly the same, and I didn’t believe it at first,” Hagrid mused, watching him leave. “Yeh know, Riddle…I didn’t miss yeh.”       “I’m so hurt,” Tom drawled sarcastically, climbing into the carriage.       This was one of the last ones. He sat opposite Blaise Zabini, already known from Slughorn’s club. Beside him was a dark-haired girl whose face seemed permanently etched with contempt for everyone around. Right after, a very dishevelled Draco Malfoy leapt in — his formerly slicked-back white hair was mussed, falling over his face.       “Let’s go,” he barked rudely toward Hagrid. Slammed the door and flopped onto the last free seat. The carriage lurched into motion.       “You took awhile, Draco,” the girl sulked.       “What happened?” Tom scanned the messy boy, his split bleeding lip. With a light flick of his wand, he mended the half-torn shirt button at the collar, healed the facial injury. Malfoy tersely nodded in thanks, gingerly touching his mouth.       “Had to hang back, Pansy. Fucking Potter,” he hissed angrily. “Just reminded him about something regarding his Mudblood mum, and that ape started swinging. No dignity!”       Tom just snorted — best not to unleash the sarcastic comment about Malfoy’s own dignity.       “I even regretted sending Crabbe and Goyle ahead with our trunks,” he continued, taking the chuckle for agreement. “They’d have left nothing of him! But I got some good hits too.”       “A wizard should use his wand,” Tom admonished lightly. “Not fists like a Muggle.”       “Exactly!” Malfoy exclaimed, oblivious to the barb. “Gryffindor ape! Besides Quidditch he’s useless. Don’t get why everyone fawns over him! Never did anything himself, just got his heroic dead daddy’s fame.”       Tom recalled what Gaunt had said about eliminating James Potter due to discovered blackmail material, and read the file. A talented wizard, top student, promising young Auror. One night found dead in a dark alley under mysterious circumstances. To people his untimely end seemingly looked valiant, some of that heroic aura extending to his son.       “Forget him, Draco,” Pansy drawled affectedly. “Better listen to the new hair potion I got at Weasley’s shop. I’ll pour you some, it’s perfect.”       He turned to the window, half-listening to the girl’s prattle with Draco — clearly more than friendly. Though Tom needed maximum intel, he had to agree with her.       The sorting ceremony was nearly finished when the Great Hall doors slowly cracked open. McGonagall faltered, interrupting herself mid-name call. Over her spectacles she shot the entrance a sharp look and pursed her thin lips. Like everyone else, Tom glanced over at the sound and understood Potter’s absence — he wasn’t at the table.       Now he stood in the doorway, about as ragged as Malfoy had been jumping into the carriage. Somehow even more ruffled and irritated, and Tom understood why — a black-robed man grabbed him by the collar. Stepping inside, he roughly shoved the boy forward, releasing Potter’s robe. The kid contemptuously shrugged his shoulder and stomped to the Gryffindor table, pointedly ignoring the hundreds of eyes boring into him. Passing by, Tom noticed the streak of dried blood below his nose and chin, red smears on the crisp white uniform shirt.       “Look how I rearranged his ugly mug,” Malfoy cackled nastily, miming a punch. He seemed to have already forgotten his own split lip healed by Tom. Potter glowered at Malfoy, wedging himself between Granger and the redheaded boy who scooted aside on the bench. “Must’ve been late for the carriage after our nice chat, and went on foot. Then Snape caught him.”       Tom followed the man proceeding past the Deputy Headmistress, who resumed sorting, toward the head table. Shoulder-length black hair, a prominent nose on the thin face. His robe billowed behind him, stride confident, eyes disdainfully indifferent. Not handsome but inner strength evident in the proudly squared shoulders. So this Severus Snape, who’d betrayed Voldemort in the alternate reality and therefore discarded by Thomas Gaunt. Apparently a prominent Order member now. Tom needed to uncover as much as possible — his file had been the sparsest.       “Severus Snape, Defense professor,” Draco supplied, noticing Tom’s interest. “Though I’d rather study the Dark Arts themselves, but sadly this isn’t Durmstrang. Snape’s one of us though, a Slytherin too, always supportive, never takes House points. And Potter was really upset when I asked if Snape was his stepdad now or just fucking his mom on the side,” Malfoy guffawed, delighted with his joke.       “Is that so?” Tom quirked a questioning brow, absorbing another tidbit. “What was her name, Lily Potter? Mudblood, right?”       “Yeah, probably why he won’t marry her, just uses the hot piece!” Malfoy grunted in satisfaction. “What a fox!”       “All you do is talk about Potter, I’m tired of hearing it,” Pansy sulked jealously. Though Tom needed maximum details, he had to agree with her.       The sorting ended and dishes appeared from nowhere — roast beef, fragrant roasted chicken, plump sausages, potatoes in various forms, golden Yorkshire puddings. Tom involuntarily recalled entering Hogwarts for the first time and facing the table laden with delicacies unlike any he’d seen before. It had taken all his self-control not to dive in, grabbing food ravenously with his hands. Even now, so many years later, he barely kept an impassive face, for a second again feeling like that perpetually half-starved eleven-year-old orphan. Reminding himself others were watching, he matched Draco’s leisurely pace, just as lazily reaching for the beef.       Blaise Zabini on Tom’s other side introduced the last classmate, a skinny boy named Theodore Nott. How amusing time was — he now studied alongside grandsons of two of his “knights.” Abraxas Malfoy dead, Nott Sr. likely coerced by Gaunt into discretion regarding Tom’s real identity. At least the girls all had familiar surnames typical for Slytherin, but he hadn’t personally crossed paths with their relatives. Just as well.       When the clinking cutlery died down and gold plates emptied, Dumbledore gave a short speech filled with allegories, clearly beyond most students. For a second Tom felt a piercing gaze and stared at the bells in the long white beard, avoiding meeting the old man’s penetrating eyes. At the speech’s end, students applauded noisily, rising from tables to head for dormitories. Tom glanced at the wide-eyed first years huddling anxiously at table’s end, then Malfoy, not hurrying to his prefect duties but scanning the Gryffindor table chin in hand instead.       “Draco,” Tom touched his shoulder. “You should see to the children.”       “Oh, right,” Malfoy started, rising lazily from the bench. “Pansy, let’s take the runts, and Tom too so he doesn’t get lost,” he smirked.       “Much obliged,” Tom grinned back, trying not to make it too sarcastic.       Malfoy herded the firsties with gruff shouts into a column. He and Pansy led the way. Tom barely restrained rolling his eyes at such unprofessionalism. He intentionally lagged so Zabini, Nott and he brought up the rear. And he was right — a couple times he had to push along the straggling kids constantly distracted by the living paintings, enchanted moving staircases, and brightly polished armour.       “Were you a prefect at Durmstrang?” Nott asked. His attentive gaze hadn’t missed Tom’s actions.       “Yes, habit,” he replied.       Finally they reached the passage to the common room, already opened by Malfoy. Following the children, they entered the elongated chamber with rough stone walls, greenish lamps dangling from the ceiling on thick chains, and a pleasantly crackling giant fireplace. Tom looked around, forcing intrigued expression — it was interesting to see what had changed in fifty years. The dark waters of the night lake still lapped at the high windows, and the leather sofas that had seen generations of young wizards looked just as tidy. He wondered if they were charmed against wear, or the upholstery replaced.       “We’re below lake level,” Zabini nodded at the murky impenetrable blackness beyond the windows. He had clearly interpreted Tom’s interest in his own way and began describing the common room. “It’s safe, the windows are unbreakable charmed. Pretty during the day, sometimes you can see mermaids or giant squid.” He headed for the dormitory corridor, “Let me show you our year’s bedroom.”       Tom followed his guide, lips quirking. If only he knew how deeply Tom had penetrated Hogwarts' secrets, especially the dungeons. The bedroom wasn’t his old one, but similar — same dark wood beds with carved posts and emerald velvet canopies, massive wardrobes and curved-leg nightstands. The house-elf delivered trunk sat by the sixth bed, clearly a recent addition — judging by the old floor marks, the rest of the furniture had been shifted over — but still plenty of space in the large room.       While the boys unpacked and yawned after the tiring train day, Malfoy strolled in, Crabbe and Goyle at his heels as always. He dramatically flopped onto the bed beside Tom’s, heaving an exaggerated weary sigh, “And the year’s barely started but I’m already working hard…”       “Power comes with responsibility, Draco,” Tom remarked. Then, thinking for a moment, softened his words, “Who else will do it if not you?”       “Too right!” Malfoy agreed, clearly encouraged at the prospect of superiority over others. Propping himself up on his elbows toward Tom, who was taking clothes from his trunk, he asked, “So, what d’you think of our common room? Better than Durmstrang?”       Tom froze for a second. He straightened up and smiled, “Excellent. Feels like home already.”       

***

      Morning brought murky greenish light seeping through the windows and Crabbe’s noisy snores, audible once Tom removed the customary privacy charms from his bed. Nott was already up reading, leaning against the headboard. He silently nodded as Tom passed on the way to the bathroom. Following his roommate’s example after the shower, Tom buried his nose in the Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook while the others shuffled around sleepy. The start covered nonverbal spells — nothing interesting, likely first lessons.       Finally Malfoy tamed his hair-gel and styling, Crabbe and Goyle created matching socks, Zabini conquered an ironing charm without setting his shirt aflame. The Slytherins headed for the Great Hall and breakfast. Nearly at the doors, voices reached them:       ”…look, new meat in the snake pit? Or did Malfoy get bored of stupid Parkinson and found himself a pretty boy?”       Draco gritted his teeth angrily beside Tom and turned toward the caller. The others also halted. Crabbe and Goyle cracked knuckles, scornfully eyeing the Gryffindors who had caught up with them — the now familiar Potter, Granger and Weasley girl. With them were two more boys — a tall redhead who sat by the feast last night, and a gangly brunet with a round face.       “Oh, Weasel!” Draco addressed the redhead who had shouted. “Didn’t think your parents could afford school for two. Oh right, probably leftovers from your brothers and tattered books.”       The Slytherins guffawed. The redhead, who Tom noticed had a prefect badge, reached for his wand but Granger grabbed his arm.       “They’re not worth it, Ron! Let’s go!” She huffed indignantly, bushy hair flying as she strode off, tugging the boy along. Potter pensively glanced Tom over — the only one not laughing — and followed his friends.       “Another Weasley?” Tom asked Draco as they entered the Hall. “How many are there?”       “Like roaches,” Draco sneered. “Thankfully the older ones graduated and aren’t buzzing around. Just ickle Ronnie and his sister left.”       “And with them was…?”       “Longbottom. Pathetic, you’d never guess his parents were Aurors. Maybe adopted?”       Crabbe and Goyle fawned with sycophantic laughter, sitting on either side of Draco at the Slytherin table. Tom sat between Zabini and Nott this time.       “You moved to Britain with your family?” Blaise cautiously asked. And so the traditional probing of blood status and connections began. Tom was prepared for such questions.       “Yes, with my father. He’s a halfblood, my mother was a pureblood. Died long ago, barely remember her. We lived in Germany but lately the politicians cater too much to Mudbloods there over tolerance, even give them job preference. My father got a Ministry position here, you Brits respect tradition more, and I have better prospects after graduation.”       Zabini nodded, satisfied with blood status, societal standing, and attitudes toward Muggleborns.       “You speak English well,” Nott praised. “Almost no accent, just odd words sometimes.”       Tom grinned — though he only knew conversational German, his classmates knew none, so faking was easy. And the pronunciation plus occasional antiquated slang they didn’t understand only helped sell it.       “Try not to walk the castle alone,” Zabini whispered, leaning closer. “Gryffindors won’t pass up cursing any Slytherin in the back.”       “Really?” Tom asked, surprised. “I thought duelling was against school rules. And Dumbledore just mentioned friendship and cooperation between Houses…”       “Yeah, yeah, he said that, it’s key,” Blaise scoffed. “And who’s supposed to enforce it? Prefects! Like Weasley. Or hapless Longbottom with a badge, that’d be grand.”       “Draco doesn’t seem eager to build bridges either,” Tom nodded understandingly. Looked like House tensions had only worsened over the past fifty years if clashes flared this frequently just overnight. And the Heads didn’t seem to care.       “Did Houses get along at Durmstrang?” Nott asked curiously. “What were they anyway?”       “The names won’t mean anything, we were sorted more by inclinations — warrior mages, scholars, healers, creative types,” Tom replied, recalling what Antonin Dolohov had said when transferring in fifth year. Strangely, the war hadn’t brought a mass exodus from the continent. Most magical families likely preferred to stand and fight, defending all they held dear against Grindelwald.       “Which were you?” Zabini asked interestedly, also listening to Tom’s account. Tom popped a forkful of eggs in his mouth to buy time for an answer — he hadn’t anticipated that question.       “You tell me,” he finally replied after swallowing. “It’ll be interesting to see if you can guess.”       “You’re on,” Blaise snorted. “I think by evening I’ll have an opinion. For now I’d say scholar, considering your train charms and Slughorn’s delight.       “He named the warrior first,” Nott shook his head. Tapping fingers on the table, he gave Tom an intrigued look. “Typically you start with your own House. But he was reading a book this morning like a proper nerd…”       “Just like you,” Zabini ribbed his friend. “And here’s McGonagall with schedules. We’ll see what’s in store today.”       The tall thin witch was indeed approaching the Slytherin table.       “Theodore Nott,” she drawled, scrutinising his O.W.L. results over her square spectacles. “Defence — Outstanding, carry on… Transfiguration — Exceeds Expectations, not bad. Arithmancy, Runes… All in order, here is your timetable,” she tapped the blank sheet, handing it to Nott before moving on.       “Mr. Riddle… Welcome to Hogwarts,” her gaze lingered a moment. “Ten Outstandings on your O.W.Ls,” she clicked her tongue, glancing between his results and chosen courses. “Dropping Care of Magical Creatures?       “Too heavy a load,” Tom politely replied. “Nine N.E.W.T.s will suffice — I prefer quality over quantity.”       “Choose a career, if I may ask?” McGonagall peered at him searchingly, holding out the schedule.       “At minimum, Prime Minister, madam,” he gave a charming smile. Nott and Zabini choked back laughs, glancing approvingly. The Deputy Headmistress disapprovingly shook her head and proceeded down the table. Tom just shrugged — he hadn’t even joked.