Death in the mask

      The castle welcomed him with sleepy corridors, muted lighting, and dimly smouldering torches. Only once did Tom see a cloak flickering in the distance — some late night student. A brief glance at the watch given to him in a past life by Lestrange told him he had half an hour left. He always liked nighttime Hogwarts — quiet, no one around, the entire castle seemingly belonging to him alone. He quickly traversed the corridors to the Clock Tower, exited through its doors into a rectangular overgrown stone courtyard. Plants still wound around the chipped columns, but the Scottish nature already felt the breath of cold, and the fountain basin held the first yellow leaves. Soon only bare brown branches would snake over the stones instead of green tendrils.       Tom circled the fountain, lighting his way with Lumos, and stepped onto the rickety wooden bridge over the chasm. Couldn’t they have built a stone one in all these years? Muggles already prop up whole cities reaching for the sky while wizards live for centuries with a wooden path, at least roofed over, across a ravine. His heels echoed into the silence, fading somewhere below, dissolving into nothingness. Soon his feet stepped onto the grass on the other side of the bridge, onto the meadow by the Stone Circle, some incomprehensible parody of Stonehenge to an unknowing eye. Tom, however, saw before him the cromlech, an architectural monument from the Bronze Age created by ancient wizards. How amusingly a few ephemeral bits of knowledge in one’s head could shift perspective. The whole world seemed to gain an extra dimension.       He extinguished the light on his wand and paused for a few seconds, listening and looking around. You should approach a new friend bearing gifts. Now was a fitting time, the night creatures were coming out of their burrows. But he couldn’t summon anything specific without knowing its exact appearance or location. Doubtfully a spell existed for seeking mice in the dark. He contemplatively rolled the wand in his hand. But what prevented him from creating one? Here, under the deep night sky, next to an ancient site of power. He could feel the threads of magic permeating the space around him. The main thing was focusing on his intent. He concentrated, repeating the memorised circular wand motion.       “Animal revelio!”       He managed to accomplish his idea — his field of vision blossomed with red flashes, visible only to him. One crimson shadow darted over his head. Something rustled in the bushes farther away, but was too big to be a mouse by the size. And two small figures scurried in the grass about ten metres away.       “Accio mice!”       Tom aimed his wand at them, and a couple seconds later two grey creatures were already writhing upside down in the air before him. Their fur faintly glimmered in the renewed wand light as he examined his catch. One of the mice let out a heartrending squeak. He could Stun them, but that would be overkill. He always preferred acting more elegantly. He leaned in closer to the mouse, boring into it with his gaze.       “Shhh, quiet,” he whispered, releasing a bit of his magic which flowed out in a thick dark stream, enveloping and overpowering the foreign will.       The creature, twitching nervously one last time, stilled. Tom carefully picked up the limp body and slipped it into his pocket, then repeated the trick with the second one. He smiled, satisfied with his resourcefulness, and climbed up the slope toward the owlery.       The tall standalone round tower he ascended to by stone steps looked half empty, the local inhabitants having flown out to hunt. The thought struck him that Knight might have flown off too, but then a wing gently smacked the back of his head and the owl settled onto the stone railing of the spiral staircase winding through the tower’s central well. The clever bird had wisely awaited its master.       “Hello, friend. Want it?” Tom took out the mouse from his pocket and, holding it by the tail, shook it in front of the owl’s face. It looked at the limp body disdainfully.       “Fine, how about this?”       He released his control, lifting his spell from the tiny creature, which immediately began squirming and squeaking. Knight looked more interested now. It darted forward, sinking its beak into the prey. Tom had to hold onto the mouse while the owl pulled out the pieces it deemed tastiest. He watched the disembowelment of the recently alive animal indifferently. Deciding the food was decent enough, Knight nimbly snatched it up whole, only the pink bald tail briefly flashing in its beak.       “Want more?” Tom politely asked, but the owl only tucked its head into its shoulders and slowly blinked its huge orange eyes, sated. “Alright, I hope you aren’t too sleepy after dinner, the whole night still ahead. Can you take this letter to Thomas?”       It accepted the envelope with a sense of dignity and, hooting deeply, took flight. Tom got smacked in the head by the wing again, but didn’t really mind, taking it as a friendly gesture. He watched as Knight faded into the darkness beyond the unglazed window, then headed out.       Of course, addressing the letter to his father could only mislead curious classmates or random Ministry officials intercepting it. They wouldn’t scrutinise who was writing to whom if the text contained nothing untoward. If it fell into Order hands, that shouldn’t alarm them either — he had written in rather general terms whose full meaning would only be clear to him and Gaunt. In theory, the magic on the envelope should destroy it if it landed in the wrong hands… But who knew if they had already learned to circumvent or break such spells; he’d have to verify with Thomas as a charms expert.       If the letter ended up in Dumbledore’s hands, however… The old man would have fair questions as to what “father” had suddenly appeared for Tom Riddle, born in 1926. Dumbledore was far too powerful and skilled, his enchanted envelope hardly an obstacle. The only hope was that the headmaster didn’t stick his long nose into students' personal correspondence without need. Previously, he had considered such below his dignity.       Tom crossed the bridge and the stone courtyard, entering the Clock Tower again under the booming chime of the clocks which seemed extraordinarily loud here. It announced 10 pm. The pendulum swung a giant black shadow, slicing through the air with a whistle, relentlessly ticking off time’s passage. Now he had to be careful not to run into Filch after curfew. Though the man was just a Squib, Dumbledore was a powerful Legilimens and might notice if the caretaker’s memory was brazenly tampered with.       Tom approached the portrait of the witch in a pointed hat through which he had come from the main staircase on the way here. And immediately smacked his palm against the frame in frustration — the witch was absent, having left on some business of her painted affairs.       “Madame?” he tried calling out, but of course no one responded.       The lady was probably off drinking wine with those infamous monks. Knocking on the gilded frame in irritation once more, he exhaled and headed for the stairs: no use getting angry, he’d have to take the long way around. Not slowing his pace, he touched the back of his head with his wand, casting Disillusionment Charms. The familiar feeling of cold liquid flowed over his scalp, involuntarily making him twitch his shoulders at the shiver running down his back.       He ascended to the top of the Clock Tower. The mechanisms whirred mournfully in the darkness, rotating the massive gears. His heels clacked on the wooden floorboards of the levels as he exited the tower into a long corridor. One of the walls was almost panoramic, patterned with panels, opening up the nightscape behind it. Moonlight flooded the hall through the small glass squares, laying a silvery carpet he stepped onto. And then he noticed a dark shape a bit ahead. With two yellow eyes staring right at him.       He took a couple more steps and stopped. By now he had realised his mistake — the clack of heels on the stone floor was deafeningly loud in this nighttime silence. Especially to a cat. There was no doubt now that it was Mrs. Norris before him. Her eyes looked directly at him, ears tensely upright, and it even seemed her excitedly quivering whiskers could be made out. The cat clearly saw the radiated warmth through the Disillusionment Charm contours, had caught the footsteps with sensitive hearing, while Tom, like some dimwitted first year sneaking out of his common room for the first time, had forgotten about a muffling spell.       Oh well, just a cat. He slowly pulled out his wand from his pocket. Sensing the movement, Mrs. Norris hissed and backed away as if knowing what harm the seemingly harmless piece of wood posed. She bristled, then opened her mouth in an ear-piercing yowl.       “Quiet, you!” Tom hissed, raising his wand, but the silhouette had already disappeared into the darkness. “Cat? You didn’t go for the caretaker, did you?” he asked in the empty air tensely.       He cast his freshly invented spell for detecting animals again, but it showed nothing. Cursing, he finally cast muffling charms on his feet and ran forward toward the main staircase, the shortest route to the dungeons. If caught after curfew, the suspicious Snape wouldn’t let up until he dozed him with Veritaserum to find out what dark dealings Tom was up to at night. That was absolutely unacceptable. He had to hurry. After a couple corridors, a swaying lantern gleam appeared ahead. He froze in place.       “What’s that, my beauty? A boy wandering about?” he heard grumbling.       Squib or no, with his mangy cat this Filch had somehow established a mental connection. Tom stepped back against the wall, trying to blend with the stone thanks to the Disillusionment Charm. But the small figure with tail held high still headed straight for him from around the corner. He nervously squeezed his wand. Could he cast it unnoticed? And would a Confundus work on the cat? He had never considered that before.       Tom quickly took stock of where he was — aside from the short passage behind the absentee witch’s portrait, only one path to the dungeons remained, and it passed through this very corridor. Nowhere to retreat. But he couldn’t Avada a cat before the school caretaker’s eyes? That would definitely cause unnecessary fuss. Now Draco’s “beware Mrs. Norris” took on new meaning. He could try subduing her, but a cat’s brain was fairly large, not some mouse; it would take time and concentration. Difficult when Filch’s shuffling steps were approaching with surprising speed for his advanced age. So much trouble over one furry pelt, and didn’t she have anything better to do than seek out violators? Anything better to do…       Tom smacked his robe pocket where the subdued mouse he hadn’t fed to Knight lay, which he had nearly forgotten about. It was worth a try. The cat had approached practically right up to him, piercing him with a mocking gaze, and demonstratively sat down on the floor. Suppressing the urge to kick the insolent creature, Tom extracted the mouse from his pocket, removed the Disillusionment Charm from it. Mrs. Norris stared with interest at the creature that had appeared from thin air out of nowhere.       “Run as if your life depends on it,” he whispered, lowering the mouse to the floor.       It immediately darted toward the Clock Tower. Frozen and seemingly turned to stone, the cat followed the movement with pupils dilated to the maximum. And then abruptly hurtled into pursuit. At that moment, Filch appeared around the corner: the lantern swung in his hand, illuminating a hook-nosed face, sagging cheeks, and lanky long hair.       “Mrs. Norris?” he rasped hoarsely. “What’ve you found there?”       The yellow light struck Tom’s face, and the caretaker froze right next to him, peering into the darkness at the corridor’s end from which he had come, nearsighted eyes searching. He seemed to have even stopped breathing. A few tense seconds later, Filch shuffled forward toward where the cat was rustling. Tom peeled himself off the wall. Taking advantage of the silence granted by muffling charms, he quickly made for the rest of the corridor. Initially he glanced back over his shoulder, then broke into a run outright.       “Ah, my little huntress!” he heard the caretaker’s overly saccharine voice behind him as he burst through the door leading to the moving staircases. Never! No one! He would not tell how Filch’s cat had sent the future Dark Lord fleeing.       

***

      “Damn it, Pansy!” Malfoy’s voice resonated through the sleepy Slytherin common room that morning. “Pansy, I’m going to fucking kill you!”       Tom, who was sitting in an armchair by the panoramic window reading by the dim light filtering through the greenish waters, lifted his eyes from the book and looked up. He had been waiting for a good twenty minutes for his classmates to finally get ready to head to breakfast, and had just been about to go check what was delaying them. Now the reason swept into the common room like a whirlwind, spewing curses, a green towel on his head. The scowling brunette poked her head out of the corridor leading to the girls' dormitories.       “Draco, what the hell are you yelling about, what happened?” she drawled, wrinkling her little nose.       Tom noticed Malfoy had been followed into the common room by Blaise and Theo. The guys were propped against the wall by the entrance, diligently covering their mouths with their hands, trying to stifle their laughter; Zabini was already holding his stomach. When Malfoy angrily ripped off the towel, Tom understood what had so amused his classmates, but only raised an inquiring brow.       “Your stupid shampoo, that’s what happened!” Draco yelled, his usually pale face flushed from the red splotches standing out on it. “What crap did you pour on me?! “Make your hair so shiny! ' — " he mimicked venomously, “And now it won’t wash off!!!”       Pansy froze, appraisingly studying Malfoy’s wet hair which, instead of the usual platinum, had become a delicate pale blue. Theo, nervously clamping his mouth with a shaking hand, bent over double with laughter.       “Well, I think it came out nicely,” Parkinson concluded confidently.       Malfoy soundlessly opened and closed his mouth, seeming about to suffocate from indignation. Mastering himself after a few seconds, he frantically scanned the common room with bulging eyes to assess who else had witnessed his shame. His gaze fixed on Tom.       “Riddle!” he shrieked, jabbing a finger at his hair. “Do something about this! You’re the fucking genius here! I can’t show my face in public like this!”       Tom thoughtfully shrugged.       “Have you tried cleaning charms?”       “Yes, Theo was casting for ten minutes but no go,” Malfoy moaned despairingly. Exhausted, he flopped onto the sofa and flung the towel away from himself. The damp fabric sadly plopped onto the floor. “Damn Weasley twins, I always knew you couldn’t trust them…”       “Pansy, bring the shampoo bottle, I’ll look at the ingredients,” Tom requested calmly. Unhurriedly, he set aside his book and approached Malfoy. “Maybe I can make a neutralizer.”       Pansy quietly snickered one last time before disappearing down the corridor to the girls' dormitories. Fortunately, Draco didn’t hear, absorbed in his suffering on the sofa. Tom leaned over him, using his wand to lift a bluish strand.       “We could try cutting your hair and re-growing it…”       “Don’t you dare!” Draco cried indignantly, even jerking away in fright. “What if something goes wrong…”       “And you’ll be not just blue but bald too,” Zabini tried to stifle a laugh but only snorted instead.       “Like a pixie,” Nott added. He bit his lip, which didn’t help him look serious at all.       Following the clack of heels, Pansy appeared from the corridor holding a black bottle. She approached Tom, hesitating a bit before holding out the vial.       “Shampoo for Dark Hair,” he read aloud. “Adds a nice shine and rich tone.”       “Rich like the ocean…” Nott whispered.       ”…and just as blue!” Zabini finished. And they howled with laughter in unison.       “For dark hair, Pansy!” Malfoy exploded, flinging up his arms. “Can you even read?! Do I look like a fucking brunet?!” He jabbed a finger at his blue hair in enraged exasperation for what seemed the hundredth time in a few minutes.       “No… You look like an Occamy,” she answered, dead serious. However, her bitten lower lip gave away her struggle to keep a straight face.       “Should check if his balls turned silver too,” Zabini suggested, and he and Nott wailed in tandem.       “Morons!” Malfoy barked at them, then turned hopefully to Tom who was frowning as he perused the bottle’s label. “Well? Anything?”       “They used powdered blue matcha for the blue tone,” seeing Draco’s lack of comprehension, he explained: “It’s the petals of the Clitoria Ternatea flower.”       “Oh that makes it so much clearer,” Malfoy snarked. Zabini and Nott dissolved into renewed laughter, now over the new hilarious name. It seemed in this state they were ready to laugh themselves into exhaustion if shown a finger.       “To set the effect they added porcupine quills,” Tom thoughtfully tapped his nail on the letters. “If we apply Golpalott’s Third Law, and take hydrogen peroxide to dissolve the dye… Yes, it should work. And wartcap powder will neutralise the side effects of the mushroom extract that should neutralise the porcupine quills…”       “Side effects?” Malfoy squeaked nervously.       “Disorientation, dizziness,” Tom replied breezily. “Do you trust me? Want to get this off or not?”       Draco shrugged, suddenly not so sure.       “Theodore, go to the hospital wing, get some peroxide, I have the rest,” Tom ordered Nott who had been listening with interest, even nodding knowingly. He headed for the exit.       “Aren’t you coming to Potions?” Malfoy asked irritably of Zabini sprawled in the armchair.       “Oh, I don’t want to miss this show,” he brazenly smiled, deliberately propping his ankle on his knee.       “I guess we’re skipping too,” Tom sighed. “Alright, Draco, you’ll owe me. Get the cauldron.”       

***

      “You see, Professor, that damned toad of Blaise’s somehow climbed into the fireplace, and when they lit it, boom! Toad guts everywhere, green and everything. First year got so scared he dropped the bag of rat spleen, it sprayed all over, and mixed with the toad guts…”       Slughorn could only shake his head in shock, listening to the story of Malfoy Jr. at the potions classroom door as their classmates hurried out after class. Zabini and Nott stood behind their prefect at attention, eyes bulging as they struggled to look serious.       “And then it just fills with sm-smoke…” Draco inspirationally wound up. “Anyway, we averted a global catastrophe, Professor!”       Tom nodded in agreement when Slughorn turned a bemused gaze on him. It seemed he had used too little wartcap powder, and now Malfoy was tripping on mushrooms. At least his hair had regained its usual platinum shade. All that remained was hoping the professor wouldn’t talk to him long enough to note the excessive inadequacy.       “Well, since you saved the Slytherin common room…” he drawled, “I suppose I should give you ten points as a reward. Copy the notes later…”       “Ten?! Just for scraping up toad guts alone…”       “Thank you, Professor,” Tom put his arms around Draco’s shoulders and pulled him toward the exit. “We’ll definitely copy them.”       ”…like fucking house elves…” Malfoy muttered angrily, “and only ten points!”       “Draco, there were no guts,” Theodore giggled. “Breathe, you’ll come down soon, it’s just the mushrooms…”       “Notes-notes…” Draco frowned in concentration, not heeding him. “Hey, Granger!” he called the Gryffindor girl walking ahead.       Tom rolled his eyes and, taking Malfoy by the elbow, tried to steer him into the side corridor toward their common room. But the girl had already turned around, and Draco immediately lunged forward at warp speed.       “Granger, can I copy your notes? We were scraping toad guts like house elves… You like elves, right? We have rights too! Granger, I want to join your SPEW right now and defend them! And myself…”       Hermione’s eyes rounded in shock, and by the end she had begun slowly boiling over:       “More of your stupid jokes! It’s going too far, especially after how your family treated Dobby! You!” she shouted, glaring angrily at Tom. “I expected it from him, but you’re showing yourself just as much of a jerk if you’re in on this!”       He yanked Malfoy toward himself.       “We’re leaving. Forget it.”       “I’m not going anywhere. Riddle, just look at her hair! Like a scrub brush,” Draco reached out, trying to grab a strand. Hermione indignantly recoiled. “Maybe you can do something about her hair too? You know how to handle that clito…clitoria, right! And you have such gentle fingers…”       Granger just kept opening and closing her mouth, casting shocked looks between Draco and Tom and back. For what seemed the hundredth time, Tom thought it would have been far simpler to tie Malfoy up and forcibly shave him, then regrow his hair from scratch.       “Hermione, why are you lagging?” Potter’s voice sounded from behind the girl.       Just what he needed, another scandal. Tom barely restrained himself from growling in frustration, instead whirling around and silently propelling Draco ahead with kicks. But the latter still managed to yell before they disappeared around the corner:       “Anyway, Granger… I actually really like your hair!”