Death in the mask

      “Come in, come in!” No sooner had they reached Slughorn’s classroom than he was already waving his hand genially, urging them to hurry up. “Tom, my boy, how was your first day?” he asked as the students filed into class.       “Magnificent, Professor, I feel right at home,” Tom put all the carefree cheer he could muster into his smile.       Granger, even more dishevelled than usual, shot him an angry look as she entered the classroom after her redheaded friend. For some reason, Potter wasn’t with them. Tom also went into the room, which swirled with multi-colored steam and strange smells. It seemed the old potions master was true to form, trying to impress the students with the first lesson. In front of the teacher’s desk stood several cauldrons in a row with assorted potions.       Tom walked past them and sat with the other Slytherins in the last free spot at the end of the long table. Across the aisle were Granger and Weasley, who demonstratively shifted to the opposite side of the table. Looking as if their neighbours smelled worse than the steaming cauldrons.       “Well now, where is Mr. Potter?” Slughorn suspiciously eyed the students as if Harry might be hiding behind their backs.       “I’m here, Professor,” the boy called out, having just flown into class. He hurried to the last free spot next to his friends. “Sorry, a bit of an accident… Trying to wash off the ink.”       The Slytherins guffawed at the sight of Potter’s hands, which now shimmered in rainbow hues. He rather unsuccessfully tried to hide them in his pockets.       “It doesn’t wash off, you dolt,” Malfoy snickered, provoking another burst of laughter. “You’ll be walking around decorated like a babbling book for a week…”       “A creation of the Weasley twins?” Slughorn chortled good-naturedly. “Very interesting inventions they have, very interesting. How ever did they achieve this effect? If you have any left, perhaps you could lend me some for research…”       “Of course,” Potter rummaged in his repaired but horribly stained bag, pulling out an almost empty vial. “It’s just that my Potions book got damaged too…”       “No matter, Harry, take a book from that cupboard,” the professor waved absently. He greedily grabbed the vial, wrapping it in a handkerchief just in case. He shook the black liquid, peering at it with interest as it began shimmering different colours, then satisfied, grunted and sent the phial into the bottomless depths of his desk.       “Now then, since we’re all here…” Slughorn looked over the students with an extremely sly expression. Harry had taken his seat across the aisle from Tom, examining the battered book he’d found in the cupboard with fastidious suspicion. “I’ve prepared a few entertaining potions here. Seeing as you’ve all moved to the next level and are preparing for your N.E.W.T.s, you should be able to brew all this. Who can identify them?”       Granger immediately shot her hand up, all but jumping with impatience. The girl clearly wanted to win back the points she’d lost. Looking at her, Tom lazily raised his hand too, smirking.       “Well, though there’s no point asking Mr. Riddle, I have no doubts about his knowledge…” Slughorn muttered loudly, as if to himself, winking at Tom. “But let’s split it evenly. Miss Granger — the first two, Mr. Riddle — the last two.”       Granger threw Tom an indignant look, as if it were his fault that Slughorn had called her own knowledge into question. Angrily tossing her head, she approached the cauldrons. Tom also got to his feet and walked around the table.       “A colourless, odourless liquid. This is Veritaserum, the truth potion,” she concluded, peering into the cauldron with the clear potion. “Three drops is enough to make someone divulge all their secrets.”       “Unless, of course, they’ve taken the antidote or are an accomplished Occlumens,” Tom added. Granger pursed her lips:       “Yes, I was about to say that. Second is Polyjuice Potion,” she jabbed her finger at the cauldron with thick, bubbling bog-coloured liquid that looked like liquid mud. “To turn into another person, you need to add a piece of them — a hair, for example — and it will transform you. It doesn’t smell great now, but I’m certain it will reek outright disgusting for some.”       Tom stretched his lips into a smile in response to her jab. Slughorn nodded approvingly.       “Quite right. Tom?”       He stepped over to the next cauldron and peered inside.       “Mother-of-pearl sheen on the surface, spiralling steam… This is Amortentia, the love potion. It smells different for each person, depending on what attracts them. For me, for example, it’s the smell of a fresh book, sea air, and…”       Tom trailed off, realising what metallic notes he was detecting in the air by the cauldron. The smell spread, driving out the others with its tartness, filling the space as if drilling into his head. The smell of blood. His train of thought slowed, growing sluggish, while his heart beat faster as the image that had imprinted itself too vividly on his mind involuntarily rose before his eyes. A summer night, a man in black robes bleeding out at his feet. The damp fabric glimmers in the moonlight as the man desperately tries to stanch the slashed throat wound, but life relentlessly leaves the body. His own chest is constricted with elation, and his fingers tremble with excitement.       “Oh, no need to say if it embarrasses you,” Slughorn understandly winked. “The last scent, the so-called base note, usually belongs to a love interest, the strongest passion a person might not even admit to themselves. A very interesting potion, and the most dangerous in this class. Yes, don’t be surprised,” he turned to the snickering students, “Live and learn, you’ll find out what havoc a person in the throes of love can wreak…”       Tom knew this perfectly well. He pulled the knowledge from Uncle Morfin’s memory — his mother had drugged his father with a love potion. As soon as it wore off, he fled from the pregnant woman, nothing left but the trail of his heels. He abandoned her to die, abandoned Tom, rejected him… And then that filthy Muggle told him to his face that the witch had bewitched him, that he had no son, and it would have been better if there had never been one. And for that he got an Avada Kedavra to his heart. No matter, the bastard’s long rotted in the ground. But why was it so hard to breathe? Slughorn’s words melted into a steady hum that began to be drowned out by the mounting ringing in his ears.       “Tom?..”       Hearing his name, he raised a dazed gaze to the professor, surfacing from the murky waters of his subconscious. He frowned, trying to grasp what was being discussed.       “The last cauldron, you never answered?” Slughorn looked at him warily. “Are you unwell? It’s the first time I’ve seen anyone get ill from the smell of Amortentia, usually the aroma lifts the mood, and you can’t drag them away from the cauldron by their ears…”       “I’m fine,” Tom loosened his silver-green tie and nervously ripped open the top button of his shirt. He tried to take a deep breath and focus, ignoring the persistent oppressive smell. “Just a little stuffy in here. Now.”       He stepped over to the last cauldron, feeling Granger’s tense gaze on him, and with an effort focused on the golden liquid whose drops were bouncing on the surface as if on a trampoline.       “Felix Felicis,” he concluded. “Liquid luck.”       “Correct,” Slughorn nodded. “Twenty points to Miss Granger and Mr. Riddle. An extraordinarily expensive, difficult to brew potion, ruinous if botched, toxic in large doses… But if taken wisely, luck will smile upon all your endeavours while it is in effect. Of course, banned for official competitions and exams. And one such vial, with a dose for twelve hours of luck, will go to whoever brews the best Draught of Living Death using the remainder of the class! Open your books to page ten and begin!”       Granger darted back to her seat. Pages immediately began rustling feverishly as the students enthusiastically laid out ingredients and jangled scales with greater enthusiasm. Slughorn conspicuously placed the vial on his desk where it would be clearly visible even from the back of the class, then carefully levitated the full cauldron of golden potion into a cupboard, locking it securely. He always knew how to engage the students. Tom slowly returned to his seat, rubbing his face with his palms in an attempt to regain his composure.       “What’d you get a whiff of there that nearly made you pass out?” Malfoy sneered nastily, swiftly slicing valerian roots.       “Your foul cologne,” Tom replied casually as Nott and Zabini snickered, briskly chopping on their boards. Draco wrinkled his nose, sniffing himself:       “It’s not foul…” Hey, what’s with the dirty insinuations?”       Tom didn’t respond, only studied the brewing process for the potion in his book. His head gradually cleared as he focused on the work, dismissing stray thoughts and incomprehensible feelings. Having tossed the evenly sliced valerian into the cauldron, he took hold of the sopophorous beans.       He was a little behind the class — everyone else’s beans were already bouncing around. The students rushed to catch them, crawling under the tables, colliding in the aisles. Potter was even doing something indecent with his bean — smashing it with the flat side of his knife, frowning. Tom also tried to cut through the tough skin but it wouldn’t give, and the bean kept trying to slip out of his hand. Enough of that! After brief consideration he ran his wand over his fingertips, muttering a sticking charm. Firmly pinching the bean between thumb and forefinger, he nimbly crushed it with a sharp knife and tossed it into the cauldron.       The potion took on the necessary blackcurrant colour, but a quick glance across the aisle into Potter’s cauldron hinted that by some miracle he was far ahead — the liquid in his cauldron had already lightened to a delicate pink, while the ideal potion was supposed to become as clear as water. Granger, all dishevelled and flushed, feverishly stirred her concoction, jealously peeking into Harry’s cauldron and then Tom’s, whose potion was even darker than hers, with quiet malice. Things looked surprisingly bleak at the Slytherin table — Zabini’s was bubbling something suspiciously thick, while Malfoy was puzzling over a dark blue brew. Tom hazarded a guess that the latter had added too few sopophorous beans, which had run off, and Draco had spent a good ten minutes swearing as he crawled around collecting them under the table.       “Time’s up! Hands off the cauldrons!” Slughorn proclaimed, walking down the row, sniffing and examining the results. Tom irritably assessed his potion, which was lightening far too slowly and was still only pink. Surely he couldn’t lose to some Mudblood? He touched his wand to his spoon, which continued stirring the potion on its own when he stepped back from the cauldron like the others.       “Hmm, not bad, Miss Granger! You did everything right, just a tad undercooked, literally by a minute. Ran out of time, I understand, it was a difficult task… Oh, Harry, you’ve succeeded! What an ideal colour!” he exclaimed. “Do confess, has Lily been practising with you over the holidays? I recognize the style, even a certain elegance!”       He tossed a prepared oak leaf, green and carved, into the cauldron, and it quickly disintegrated. Potter was smiling mysteriously, biting his lips to contain a pleased grin.       “Simply wonderful! But let’s see what Mr. Riddle has managed…”       Slughorn stepped farther and peered puzzled at the spoon that was stirring Tom’s cauldron on its own. Before his eyes, the pale pink potion became absolutely clear, and the spoon stopped. The professor shook his head. Granger choked in outrage at such insolence, staring at the silver handle sticking out of the flawlessly transparent liquid.       “Yes, Tom, as resourceful as ever… I said step away from the cauldron, you stepped away, yet still completed the task. Let’s see…” He tossed another oak leaf into their cauldrons. In Tom’s it slowly disintegrated at the edges, while in Harry’s it practically caught fire. “You’re right, Tom, perceptive observation,” the professor nodded. “And how noble of you to point it out. Then the vial of Felix goes to Mr. Potter, and twenty more points to Slytherin for Mr. Riddle!”       Harry happily grabbed the phial passed to him by Slughorn with his fingers stained in rainbow ink, shooting Tom a grateful look. Tom nodded back and began gathering his things. Hermione clutched her bag to herself and dashed out of the classroom, eyes downcast.       “Harry, don’t destroy the contents, I’ll find a use for it,” Slughorn fussed by the full cauldron of Draught of Living Death, beginning to transfer the potion into an empty bottle with his wand. “I’ll conduct some research… Tom, you too leave yours!” he called out and briskly hurried to the exit, clutching the vessel filled with valuable loot.       Tom shrugged and covered his cauldron with a lid. He couldn’t care less if the crafty potions master sold his work somewhere on the side. Nott slapped him on the shoulder:       “Not bad, forty points to Slytherin for the lesson. Of course, you didn’t have to mention the concentration. But points are good too.”       “Since when did Potter become a potions master?” Malfoy grumbled unhappily, Vanishing his inglorious brew. “Wouldn’t have thought he’d put our brand new Mr. Perfect to shame.       “Don’t be jealous, Draco, it won’t improve your potion,” Zabini bared his teeth in a grin. He was one whom the failure didn’t upset in the least. “But Riddle did outdo the Gryffindor bookworm, and that’s worth a lot. If he keeps earning points at this rate, the House Cup’s in our pocket. Just make sure Granger doesn’t slip some poison into your pumpkin juice.”       “A whole cauldron of Polyjuice,” Malfoy said longingly. He had finished gathering his things and was now casually leaning on the table, greedily eyeing the covered cauldrons Slughorn had displayed at the start of class. “Can’t just buy that on the market, or any of these potions for that matter…”       “Just imagine, you could turn into some girl and see what she’s got under her skirt…” Nott chimed in.       “Ew, Theo, becoming a girl just for that would be the last thing needed,” Zabini wrinkled his nose in distaste. “As if you can’t just push someone into a corner, take a look and see.       “Easy for you to push someone around,” Theodore snorted, eyeing the mulatto’s statuesque figure enviously.       “While you, beanpole, have a whole cauldron of Amortentia,” the other mocked with a nod at the teacher’s desk.       Tom rolled his eyes and headed for the exit. Nott took one last longing look at the Amortentia and shuffled after him. He always found this pining after girls utterly incomprehensible — what could possibly be so interesting? He had looked in an anatomy atlas but still didn’t understand what evoked so much thrill and excitement in others. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Malfoy, the last one left, sneakily approaching the teachers' cauldrons. He walked out of the classroom — the last thing needed was a new scandal with his classmates, so he decided it was none of his business.       

***

      Morning inevitably arrived, flooding the dormitory with mystic green light, falling on the stone floor in winding serpentine strips. After the cool gloomy dungeons, the Great Hall required squinting against the blinding gold that flooded the space, relentlessly penetrating through half-closed eyelids. Tom phlegmatically noted that the usual disgusted expressions on the Slytherins' faces were actually due to the abrupt change in climate, which forced his classmates to blink unhappily as they hunched on the bench at the table like owls on a perch. Speaking of owls…       Tom rarely received correspondence, only when he ordered something by owl post from shops. So the gracefully landing dark brown owl in front of him caused some surprise. Beneath the unblinking orange gaze, he took the letter from the hooked fuzzy claw, opened the envelope and scanned the lines written in a bold hand.       Hello Tom!       I hope you arrived safely and are settling into the castle, already getting to know your new surroundings, trying to build friendly ties. I have no doubt that, as always, you are cautious and focused. I await a return note, would like to hear your impressions — after all, I worry for you as I would for myself. Write, tell me how things are at Hogwarts.       To facilitate communication I’m leaving you this owl. If you periodically feed him mice, you’ll quickly find a common language. What I named him, you can easily guess.       

T.M.R.

      Tom thoughtfully raised his eyes to the bird — the rounded head with tufts sticking out on the sides smoothly transitioned into a stocky body. It seemed he had acquired his first pet. Though he did enjoy talking to snakes sometimes, he never felt the need to keep some animal close, never got attached to anyone. At least an owl was useful, not like some cat or toad.       “We’ll get you mice. What’s your name?” he muttered questioningly. He speared a bit of bacon from his plate with a fork and offered it to the owl. And what might he himself have named the loyal bird? His gaze moved over the strict black and brown feathers, catching on the silvery face that stood out as a light spot. The owl abruptly jerked its beak skyward, throwing its head back, and in a practised motion swallowed the treat. “Knight?”       The bird hooted in agreement. Reaching out his hand, Tom gently scratched the new pet behind the ear. Nott sitting beside him was examining the owl with curiosity, then craned his neck to peek at the letter.       “From your father?” he asked. “Typical penmanship of a Ministry official.”       “Yes,” though the note contained nothing compromising, just in case Tom quickly folded the sheet and shoved it in his bag, away from prying eyes. The handwriting was only vaguely similar to his current almost calligraphically neat one, betraying a man who often signed documents. “He bought me an owl.”       “Cool,” Nott nodded. “Malfoy has a hawk owl too. And I use a school one, or if it’s from my parents, I have to write back quickly so my father can take it…”       “Find the owlery? Fly, I’ll come see you tonight,” Tom commanded.       The owl spread its wings wide but neatly, took off from the table. It was somehow pleasant when you were obeyed voluntarily, when you were loved selflessly. And if not, you could always compel — he had learned to dominate animal minds in childhood.       “Tom Riddle!” a voice called from behind in a Scottish accent.       He turned to see McGonagall approaching from behind, then got up from the bench and politely nodded a greeting. Malfoy and Zabini also looked up from their conversation and tensely stared at the professor, but ignored etiquette and didn’t stand.       “The headmaster is expecting you in his office,” she tersely said, giving him a stern look. “The password is 'Acid Pops'.”       The witch walked away toward the teachers' table. Tom exchanged a glance with Draco.       “What does the old man want with you?” he asked sourly. “Don’t tell me he’s calling you on the carpet over yesterday?” You know what to say, right?”       “Of course,” Tom wiped his mouth with a napkin, then picked up his bag. “I’ll tell the truth — that the Gryffindors started it first. Don’t worry.”       He forced a smile and headed for the exit from the Great Hall. He probably should have asked where the headmaster’s office was for appearance’s sake, but that concerned him least of all at the moment. Because he didn’t feel nearly as calm as he was trying to appear.