Death in the mask

      “Do you know why the Inquisitors burned witches in the Middle Ages?” the stone gargoyle asked snidely, insolently looking down at the visitor from its pedestal in front of the headmaster’s office.       Tom sighed wearily. Not counting the time jump, as a prefect in the last year he had been to the headmaster’s office far more often than he would have liked, and had memorised the malicious statue’s entire repertoire. The jokes had changed a bit over fifty years, but their tone remained the same.       “Acid pops,” he answered.       “They lacked female warmth! Tee-hee-hee!” the gargoyle cackled shrilly and, extremely pleased with itself, slid aside.       Tom only shook his head and passed through the revealed passage onto the moving spiral staircase, which carried him up to the office with a low hum. Knocking for propriety’s sake, he entered. Every surface of this round high-ceilinged room was occupied by books and intricate golden devices. He noticed Dumbledore sitting at the headmaster’s desk and approached him. It was still unusual to see him here instead of Professor Dippet. The old wizard was ensconced in a hard wooden chair with a tall backrest; resting his elbows on the desk, he had steepled his fingers in front of himself. When Tom entered, a pair of interested blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles immediately fixed on him, examining him keenly.       “You wanted to see me, Headmaster?” he asked politely. He stopped in front of the desk, clasping his hands behind his back.       “I see you’ve settled in quite well already, Tom?” Dumbledore nodded with a pensive smile. “As if you’d always studied right here…”       “That’s right, Professor. Though some things have become new to me. You wanted to talk about yesterday?”       “Yes and no,” the headmaster replied. “You had a very eventful day yesterday. If you mean the incident between Gryffindor and Slytherin in the corridor a couple floors down… Then I know you well enough not to doubt that you only intended to maintain order.”       “However, I don’t know Mr. Riddle well enough to share your conclusions,” a voice sounded from behind.       Tom turned to see Snape, who had silently come up behind him. As usual, he was swathed in black from neck to toes, hands folded over his chest. His dark eyes examined Tom contemptuously, like a bug under a microscope.       “As you see, Professor Snape is much more concerned about you than I am,” Dumbledore commented lightly, sounding vaguely amused. “Especially about what happened in his class.”       “I certainly didn’t intend to undermine your authority in any way…” Tom frowned, looking at Snape.       “Oh, Severus has done splendidly on his own in that regard,” Dumbledore airily waved a hand. “Unexpected, isn’t it, when you suddenly can’t rub a student’s nose into the floor?       “It’s not my authority I care about,” Snape ground out without taking his eyes off Tom. “I admit that…challenging you to a duel was entirely my responsibility. But what happened next…” He exhaled through clenched teeth. “You didn’t see how he moved, Headmaster! What polished combinations he threw. Where does a boy get that kind of combat experience? His peers barely demonstrated the simplest defensive spells for their O.W.L.s!”       “Are you implying something, sir?” Tom raised an inquiring brow.       “I’m not implying, I’m saying it outright.”       Snape stepped forward, practically right up to him, his voice dropping almost to a hiss. Tom felt the insistent foreign will boring into his mind through eye contact and automatically threw up a mental block. Snape grimaced in irritation but continued:       “Appeared out of nowhere. Showed up at a rather tense time. Possesses, as we’ve all heard, exceptional knowledge and talent. Extremely adept at combat magic, calmly uses it nonverbally, the only one in class who can. I’ve seen Durmstrang students, they studied under me for a whole year during the Triwizard Tournament. The best of them was nowhere near so skillful! Also, Riddle is an Occlumens, as I’ve just confirmed,” he said heavily, then turned to Dumbledore, pointing a finger at Tom. “I posit that the boy did not come to Hogwarts to study at all!”       “Seriously, Severus?” the headmaster asked sardonically. “You suspect a schoolboy was sent here to spy?”       “To spy, sabotage, anything,” Snape shook his head. “You may have been misled, Albus. Fake documents, fabricated biography. I don’t see an average dim-witted schoolboy before me, not even a soldier. But at minimum a battle-hardened officer, trained and conditioned!”       “A sixteen-year-old teenager is a battle-hardened officer?” Dumbledore chuckled, peering at Snape in amusement over his spectacles.       Tom didn’t interfere in their argument. He felt no fear or anxiety, only tension uncomfortably constricting his chest. It seemed the DADA professor was overly perceptive, and now he’d have to play the fool with him, an ordinary schoolboy. No one should suspect him; after all, there was no evidence linking him to Thomas Gaunt. And here, Dumbledore knowing about his past from fifty years ago could only play to his advantage. As could the fact that Tom himself wasn’t very familiar with the details of the current situation in this new world. All that remained was to play his role properly.       “De-aging potion, appearance-altering charms, Polyjuice Potion!” Snape ticked off fingers in irritation. “He may actually be older. Extremely powerful magically, very intelligent. Didn’t intend to reveal his abilities until I pushed him against the wall. What normal sixteen-year-old boy doesn’t want to show off and preen? No, he’s no ordinary pawn! I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s actually from the Dark Lord’s inner circle.”       “All your arguments founder on my single one,” Dumbledore said calmly, shrugging. “I know Tom Riddle, I know who he is and where he’s from. And I can assure you he has absolutely no connection to what’s happening here, he really did appear recently. And certainly cannot be an agent of the Dark Lord.”       “Excuse me… the Dark Lord?” Tom repeated, feigning surprise. “What’s this about?”       “Have you been reading the news in the Prophet, Tom?” Dumbledore asked thoughtfully, tapping his steepled fingers. “You must have, to find out where you’ve ended up,” he answered himself. “You see, things here in Britain in the nineties aren’t as peaceful as one might wish.       “I noticed articles about attacks, Professor,” Tom nodded, deciding not to conceal such an obvious fact. “You think the same person is behind them?”       “Don’t pretend you’re not in the loop about your buddies' fun and games!” Snape spat venomously.       “Yes, we presume a certain person is behind this whom we call the Dark Lord,” ignoring the jab, Dumbledore continued. “Him and his followers. Since our intelligence on them is extremely limited, you’ll have to pardon Severus for being overly suspicious…”       “My suspicions are perfectly reasonable,” he insisted, shaking his head. Dumbledore remained silent. Snape, eyeing Tom, suddenly asked snidely:       “If Mr. Riddle has no connection to what’s going on, then he shouldn’t mind showing his left forearm?”       Dumbledore heavily sighed but didn’t object, merely spreading his hands as if to say, “What can you do with him?” Tom frowned in incomprehension.       “I don’t know how that could help you,” he said with a shrug, holding out his left arm to Snape.       “Cut the act, roll up your sleeve!” Snape barked.       Under the intense gaze, Tom pulled back his robe’s sleeve, unbuttoned the cuff, and rolled up his shirtsleeve to the elbow. The professor’s bony fingers closed on his wrist, roughly yanked it toward himself, turning the arm with the inside facing up. Snape examined the smooth white skin on Tom’s forearm, then painfully jabbed it with his wand:       “Specialis Revelio!”       Tom showed no discomfort whatsoever from the harsh poke, only watched the professor’s actions with genuine surprise. Nothing happened to his arm. Snape waved his wand in front of Tom’s face, repeating the spell, then slowly stepped back, releasing the wrist. He looked somewhat bewildered.       “Satisfied, Severus?” Dumbledore concluded evenly, though his tone already held a touch of irritation. “The boy is who he claims to be. If you won’t believe him, then believe me — I’ve known Tom since he was eleven and can state definitively that he has no connection to these unfortunate events.”       “What was that?” Tom asked the headmaster, straightening his sleeve.       “You see, the Dark Lord brands his followers. Like cattle, yes,” Dumbledore smirked, noticing his widened, surprised eyes. “It would be an excellent method to identify his servants and determine the Lord’s own identity, if the magic of the Mark didn’t bind their tongues…” he sadly sighed. “To the point of lethal consequences if one tries extracting information. Something like an Unbreakable Vow.”       “Show me your wand,” Snape ground out. “That is, if you have nothing to hide,” he added caustically.       Tom glanced questioningly at Dumbledore; he only shrugged. Tom took out his yew wand and held it out to Snape. The latter touched it with his own black one:       “Prior Incantato!”       Indistinct wisps with imprints of symbols — the traces of figures he had cast — began issuing from the wand’s tip. Household tidying and cleaning charms, protective and silencing charms he cast on his bed at night, summoning charms… When it got to the yellow wisp of Expelliarmus, Tom commented:       “That was yesterday’s scuffle in the corridor. And this is our duel, Professor,” he indicated the series of blue icy and orange fiery spells. Snape sharply waved his hand, dispelling the illusion.       “Interesting colour,” he mused, examining Tom’s wand. “And the handle… Looks like a bone. I’ve seen one like it before somewhere.”       “It’s yew. Rare for wands but used occasionally,” Tom replied. “Good for duels. Phoenix feather core.”       He mentally swore — he had completely forgotten that he and Thomas Gaunt had identical wands. All that remained was to hope the Minister didn’t often whip out his weapon in public.       “I even know which particular one,” Dumbledore smiled at some private joke. “Only a brave and exceptional wizard, a powerful battle mage, can master yew, which is what we see here. Return the boy’s wand, Severus. You’ve already seen he doesn’t get up to anything untoward at night.”       Snape reluctantly held out the wand handle-first, and Tom took it back, putting it in his bag. At the bottom lay the other, illegal one, whose history would have shown much more interesting results. But no one except him should know about that.       “Admit it, Severus, that your suspicions are unfounded,” the headmaster sighed.       “I’m not going to apologise,” Snape shook his head. “And I can’t say you’ve dispelled all my doubts. I would have liked to treat Mr. Riddle to some Veritaserum… If it weren’t illegal.”       Dumbledore sighed once more, tiredly gazing into space over the heads of his interlocutors. Tom also remained silent, adopting the mien of offended innocence. Now he looked unfairly slandered, and it was best not to change the situation with careless words.       “I don’t like this sort of conflict and suspicion,” the headmaster finally summarised. “But I have a wonderful idea that will both dispel Severus’s distrust and make use of Tom’s talents. Your infamous duel gave me the notion,” he smiled dreamily.       Tom raised an inquiring brow. Snape unhappily pursed his lips, clearly not expecting anything pleasant. Dumbledore, with impish lights dancing in his eyes, continued:       “Severus says you’re too skilled in combat magic for a sixth-year student. But I actually know why. If I’m not mistaken, in the past aside from classes you also practised magic with a group of friends?”       Now Tom shuddered inwardly. Of course, he had practised many things with his Knights of Walpurgis, but he certainly didn’t think Dumbledore had the slightest idea about their extracurricular activities and amusements. He desperately hoped not. However, the old wizard clearly had some notion of what had transpired fifty years ago. And how much did he know?       “Yes, sir, I prepared a group of students for their DADA O.W.L.s,” Tom replied with a half-truth. “An extracurricular project.”       “Just like Mr. Potter did last year,” Dumbledore smiled and turned to Snape, who only ground his teeth. “Admit it, Severus, Neville Longbottom hardly would have passed his DADA O.W.L. at Exceeds Expectations without Harry’s help. He was so nervous in your classes he kept dropping his wand. And not only him.”       “Longbottom is a dunderhead…” Snape began, but Dumbledore cut him off, raising a hand, and raised his voice slightly:       “The problem is not that Mr. Riddle is too good for his age. But our students don’t measure up to his level. I don’t mean to disparage your teaching talents, I understand you’re limited by class hours. Yes, they somehow muddle through their O.W.L.s… But that’s the bare minimum, just enough to hold a wand by the right end. If we want to prepare them for life outside these safe walls, we have to teach combat magic much more diligently. Because someday their life may depend on it. Therefore I propose reinstating the Dueling Club, appointing you and Tom as instructors.”       Snape seemed to have lost the power of speech. He only opened and closed his mouth, unable to respond. Tom outwardly took the suggestion more stoically, though inside he was a storm of emotions. He barely restrained himself from bursting into hysterical laughter — him, teaching schoolchildren to defend themselves? From him and his own Death Eaters? Together with Snape, who had just accused him of every sin under the sun, wanted to dose him with Veritaserum? This simply cannot be happening!       “Yes, I remember how it ended with Mr. Lockhart,” Dumbledore said warningly as Snape gathered his thoughts and opened his mouth, doubtless to object. “But you’ve just acknowledged Tom’s skill. That sort of problem clearly shouldn’t arise with him. Especially since he already has teaching experience. I would recommend taking Harry on as an assistant as well, he’s decent at combat magic…       “Never!” Snape spat out.       ”…but just this once, the two of you will suffice,” the headmaster finished. “Discuss the details between yourselves, take the chance to find common ground. I think it would be good to start next week already, while the class load isn’t too heavy… I’m sure there will be plenty of students eager to practise with Mr. Riddle, especially among the young ladies,” he winked almost imperceptibly. “It will also give Tom a chance to improve Slytherin’s reputation. I’m confident no one else here is up to the task.”       “As you say, Headmaster,” Tom uttered with difficulty. He was still trying to fit what was happening into his head.       “Well, now that we’ve settled everything so smoothly,” Dumbledore shrugged and contentedly leaned back in his chair, “how about some tea and sweets?”       

***

      Dear Thomas! You won’t believe what a mess…       The wand touched the paper, soaking up the ink, leaving the sheet pristine once more. Tom leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, gathering his thoughts. He was alone in the dormitory, in the semi-darkness only dispelled by the candelabra on his desk, highlighting the parchment, yellowish against the dark desktop. He bent over the paper again for another attempt.       Dear Thomas! Now I understand why you had such a sly smile when you sent me to this…       Tom nervously crumpled the blameless sheet, which immediately burst into flames right in his hands. He watched as the lump hovering an inch above his open palm was covered in black spots, consumed by the fire. The parchment shrivelled, thinning, the orange streaks grew, crumbling into grey ash at the edges. The fire’s reflections danced in his eyes as he stared, entranced, at the miniature bonfire in his palm, standing stock still, barely even breathing. When the paper disintegrated to dust and blew every which way, he shook his hand, deeply inhaled, and pulled the next sheet toward himself. The fire, as always, brought calm and clarity, helping him concentrate his thoughts. Dipping the quill in ink, Tom began to write.       Dear Father, I express my gratitude for the gift and hope that Knight and I will find common ground. So he doesn’t get bored, I’m sending a reply and, as you asked, telling you about what’s happening at school.       Unfortunately, not everything is going as smoothly as I had hoped. But you probably remember what difficulties you faced in your school years, and will only laugh at my problems.       I’ve become acquainted with my new classmates. I can especially point out Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott. Nice fellows, it’s as if I’ve known them my whole life, I only hope their older relatives won’t criticise our association.       I was surprised by the excessively tense standoff between the two houses, Slytherin, which I belong to, and Gryffindor. I’ve met some students like Harry Potter and his friends Weasley and Granger. They still view me with prejudice because of the colour of the patch on my robe. But I’m gradually working on overcoming this chasm and establishing friendly ties. Of them all, Potter seems like he might be open to contact. Unfortunately, his friend Granger and my classmate Malfoy exacerbate the conflict, unwilling to listen to my words about the need for normal interaction between houses. But I’m working on changing that.       The teachers have also surprised me a bit. Severus Snape teaches DADA, and yesterday he challenged me to a duel right in class. After which we had a highly unpleasant conversation in the headmaster’s office this morning with Albus Dumbledore participating. Because of my skills I involuntarily had to demonstrate, Snape suspected me of belonging to some local terrorist organisation. They call the leader the “Dark Lord” and are having trouble identifying him because of some marks he puts on his followers. Of course they found nothing of the kind on me, which somewhat alleviated Snape’s suspicions. Though my yew wand interested him greatly, he said he’d seen one like it before. I don’t think he’ll remember whose unless he sees it again.       To improve my interaction with the DADA professor, Dumbledore had the brilliant idea to start a Dueling Club, to raise the students' combat skills. They’ve appointed me and Snape as instructors, and I’m still unsure for now how to conduct myself in this strange situation. I hope for your wise advice.       The last paragraph was rather difficult. Tom thoughtfully tapped his fingers on the paper, pondering how to end it. Insincere well wishes and expressions of nonexistent feelings always turned out terribly fake and clichéd from him. Finally deciding there was no need to play those hypocritical games with himself, he finished with a more or less truthful signature:       

Sincerely yours, Tom

      Sealing the envelope with magic, he shoved it in his pocket and left the dormitory. It was rather late, and all the students had already returned to the Slytherin common room. Some were doing homework, quills scratching on parchment; others were playing wizard chess or gobstones, lounging in armchairs. Draco Malfoy sprawled on a sofa by the fireplace, cuddling Pansy Parkinson, who seemed perfectly willing to lie on top of him entirely. Noticing Tom, Draco turned to him, glancing over his street cloak, while Pansy warily lifted her head from his shoulder.       “Off somewhere?” he asked. “It’s rather late already…”       “To the owlery and back,” Tom nodded. “I’ll try to get back before curfew, but if I’m delayed, don’t worry — I won’t get caught.”       “Watch out for Filch and Mrs. Norris,” Malfoy lazily threw out, turning back to Pansy.       “I know Filch, he’s the caretaker. But who’s this Norris?” Tom frowned.       “His mangy cat,” Parkinson giggled. Tom raised a questioning brow. Seriously? Wary of a cat? Who did they take him for?