Death in the mask

      “I wanted to give this to you personally, my boy.”       Tom took the thick waxed paper rolled into a tube and tied with a green ribbon. He knew perfectly well what it meant. He stretched his lips into a fake smile, looking up at Slughorn, with whom he was left alone in the empty potions classroom. All the students had already scattered after the lesson.       “You were an extraordinarily talented young wizard in our… previous acquaintance,” the professor conspiratorially lowered his voice. “But I’m very pleased to see that you’re developing and moving forward. In just a couple of weeks you’ve already proven yourself,” he shook his head. “In the staff room your name is now mentioned more often than anyone else’s. I’ve heard about the incredible success with the duelling club.       “Stop by the Great Hall some Monday evening, sir,” Tom politely offered. “I’ve heard you’re also an excellent duelist and I’m sure you’ll have a lot to share with the younger generation…”       “Oh, Tom, I wish I knew where you always get such confidential information from,” Slughorn feigned embarrassment. “I’ll stop by, I’ll be sure to.”       Leaving the office, Tom came closer to the torch on the wall, ripped off the pretentious ribbon and unrolled the paper. He skimmed the letters written in emerald calligraphic ink that richly glittered in the flickering orange light. So next Friday it is. And here’s one of two things — either he’ll have to endure old Sluggy’s boring dinner party… Or he’ll be able to take advantage of the situation and make useful acquaintances. He certainly won’t miss this.       

***

      “Do you know what day it is today?” Malfoy drawled, plopping down on the bench at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall.       “Today Mercury is at its maximum eastern elongation of twenty-seven degrees,” Tom replied without looking up from the astronomy observation magazine he was reading in preparation for tomorrow’s lesson. Malfoy rolled his eyes in annoyance.       “You’re such a nerd, even worse than Nott. No, Gryffindor tryouts are today. For Quidditch, come on you guys?!” he exclaimed indignantly, meeting the blank looks from Tom and Theodore. Meanwhile, Blaise Zabini clearly caught on to something and chuckled gleefully. He suggested mischievously:       “We’re going to go support them, right?”       “Hell yeah!” Malfoy nodded happily. “It’s Potter’s first time as captain, he’ll be entertaining himself with his herd of dimwits. We should cheer him on. Tom, Theo, you with us?”       “I still have runes to finish,” Nott sighed, trying to resist at first, but wilted under the intense gaze. “But yeah, I’ll go with you guys.”       “Tom?” Malfoy was now staring expectantly at him.       “Nah, go without me,” he waved it off without looking up. “I need to go to the library.”       “And how did you end up in Slytherin? You’re a typical Ravenclaw nerd,” Malfoy sneered.       “A typical nerd who recently saved someone’s reputation from nearly being tarnished blue,” Tom casually threw out and started packing his books into his bag.       “Hey, quiet,” Malfoy hissed at him, nervously looking around, then kicked the stiflingly guffawing Zabini under the table. “You still haven’t atoned for your guilt for not insisting Potter be disqualified based on the results of our duel. You could have supported your friends. But I’ll let it go, go to your damn library.”       “Thank you for permission, Mummy,” Tom snorted and headed for the exit.       Although maintaining relationships with classmates was necessary, Malfoy was pulling way too many resources and attention, and sometimes Tom couldn’t help but snap at him. So far his usefulness outweighed that, and his influence was gradually growing, so Draco treated the new classmate demonstratively friendly. Clearly he didn’t consider him a friend, but also didn’t openly confront him after that episode with the Gryffindors, just watched silently. Tom didn’t really care what exactly the other was looking for, as long as he didn’t bother Tom himself.       Tom liked the library. It had barely changed in all the time since he finished his own fifth year long ago, and for some phantom hours it seemed he was…home. Especially when it was almost deserted like today.       The Gryffindors were probably off at Quidditch tryouts. Tom saw no great meaning in the absurd attempts to kill themselves riding brooms for such a mundane goal as throwing a ball through a hoop. And it’s much nicer to fly without a broom when you alone control the process, weightlessly soaring through the air. So Quidditch didn’t appeal to him at all, like any other sport.       He vaguely understood why people did it — to vent emotions and adrenaline, to take part in a clash strictly regulated and therefore safe. To satisfy their animal instincts, they need to feel superior to others. But to him it all looked too ridiculous — like the antics of clueless children in a sandbox. What could be the charm in strict regulations when the real fight in life was completely different? Just you, just the opponent, and a hair’s breadth from death. Feelings at the limit, adrenaline boiling in the blood, and you have to apply all your knowledge and skills to win. To kill.       And that’s when the sense of your own superiority is felt to the fullest. Pleasure like syrup runs through your veins, your throat constricts with viscous anticipation, and delight blossoms in your chest like a rose with sharp thorns. How long has it been since he last felt this, a couple of months ago?       A convulsive wand wave, and his fingers clasped the cold edges of the glass that appeared out of thin air. The water was delightfully cool, soothing his parched throat, only it couldn’t completely extinguish the fire in his chest. He had to distract himself, break free from the spell of these thoughts that dragged him into the murky abyss of subconscious desires.       Tom fidgeted in his chair, drummed his fingers on the wooden tabletop. And he was still afraid of addiction to cigarettes. Nicotine withdrawal was nothing compared to this hunger. He flipped a page of the arithmancy book back and forced himself to read the lines, trying to breathe slowly and evenly. After a couple of minutes the loud heartbeat slowed down and he managed to shake off the haze. Reaching for a quill, he began to write an essay — the tremor in his fingers was now only a barely noticeable echo.       He didn’t notice how it gradually darkened outside, he was so immersed in his work. The warm light of the magical lanterns flooded the room, chasing shadows into corners, highlighting the infinity of brown bookshelves. Only footsteps behind him jerked him out of the cold focused detachment, and Tom turned to the man who had dared to disturb his solitude at the back of the library.       “Hi,” Potter greeted, grabbing the back of the chair one over from Tom’s, “Am I interrupting?”       “No, sit down, I’m almost done,” he shrugged.       Harry nervously peeked out from behind the shelves, peered somewhere towards the library entrance, then quickly hid back and plopped into the chosen chair.       “How were tryouts?” Tom asked, watching the unusual body movements.       “Everyone just went crazy,” his unexpected companion sighed, ruffling his hair, and pulled a battered textbook out of his bag. “Gryffindor tryouts, and all four houses showed up. Even Ferr… I mean, Malfoy. And the girls especially…” he grimaced. “They came to the field, and then wouldn’t leave me alone to study in the common room either. ‘Harry this, Harry that’…”       “You’re the team captain now,” Tom smirked. “The star of Potions and the Dueling Club. A good looking guy, get used to it, pick a bride.”       “I don’t need them,” Potter sighed. “And the one I do need…” he trailed off, embarrassed.       “Not interested?”       It took a lot of effort for Tom to feign an interested look. Conversations about relationships, which teens loved so much, always tired him out, but supporting a friendly chat in the name of getting closer to the Gryffindor was worth it. For some reason he thought of Granger. Yes, if the boy has designs on her, she’s obviously more interested in books and essays than all this nonsense.       “Seems busy,” Potter awkwardly finished.       Tom raised his eyebrows in surprise. So not Granger — he saw no signs that she was in a relationship.       “Then maybe it’s for the best, these admirers of yours,” he mused, tapping his fingers on the table. “Let your sweetheart see them and decide that such a tasty morsel is needed for herself. Women are jealous creatures.”       “I can only hope you’re right,” Harry laughed awkwardly. “You probably have more experience than me.”       Tom evaded answering with a shrug and pulled the book back to him again, continuing to look for good thoughts for the concluding paragraph of the essay. Potter opened his old textbook and buried his nose in it too.       It didn’t take long to finish the work, Tom had almost forgotten about his silent neighbour. He rolled up the essay parchment, waved his wand to return the books to the shelves, and headed away. His gaze caught Potter only when Tom was passing him, and he turned his head, about to say goodbye. However, the other was so engrossed in studying the textbook that he didn’t even notice. In studying a very old, worn, and thoroughly scribbled in the margins textbook. Tom stopped behind Harry’s back, reading the angular scribbles.       “‘Mash with a silver knife, holding it flat, then the juice comes out better than when slicing’?” he read aloud.       The boy jerked violently, fidgeted, and tried to close the book, but Tom was faster — he covered it with his palm and pressed it to the table, not letting it shut. With his other hand, he held Potter by the shoulder, gripping his fingers tightly. Leaning over his head, he read on:       “‘Mash with a silver knife, holding it flat, then the juice comes out better than when slicing’.” This is a modified recipe for the Draught of Living Death,” he concluded with a frown. “Are these your notes? No, it doesn’t look like this, the ink seems old…”       “Tom!” Potter pleaded, making another futile attempt to close the book.       “So that’s how you brewed such a good potion,” the wrinkle between Tom’s eyebrows smoothed out. “Did your mother give you these instructions?”       Harry’s eyes darted around fearfully.       “Listen, I’ll tell you… Only if you promise not to tell anyone,” he finally forced out.       “Okay,” Tom nodded and removed his hand from the yellowed pages. “I promise, it will be our secret.”       He sat in the chair next to Potter’s. Nothing brings people together like secrets. He wasn’t particularly interested in whether the other was cheating in Potions, although the Gryffindor’s sudden superiority in class did sometimes prickle his jealousy. But, he reluctantly admitted to himself, he did want to know the secret.       “I found this book in Slughorn’s cabinet. Remember, on the first school day, after that scuffle with Malfoy and his goons in the hallway, my ink spilled on the books in my bag?”       Tom nodded silently, waiting for him to continue.       “So I took some old textbook from Slughorn. And it has a bunch of notes from the previous owner, modifications of potion recipes and even some invented spells in the margins…” Harry opened the textbook and hesitantly handed it to Tom. “I guess its previous owner was a talented wizard to be able to come up with all this…”       “Coming up with new spells isn’t that hard,” Tom waved it off, flipping through the book. It did contain a great many notes. “But modifying potions takes talent. You need to understand the fundamental magical principles on which potion-making works, how elements transform into each other. ‘This book is property of the Half-Blood Prince’, “ he read on the inside cover, having reached the end.       “I don’t know who this Prince was,” Harry sighed. “Does it mean anything to you?”       “Nothing,” Tom shook his head. “I’ve never heard of a wizard calling himself a prince. Maybe it’s a nickname?”       “Hermione said the same thing,” Harry nodded. “She even thinks the author of these notes might be a dark wizard and that it’s dangerous to follow his instructions. But so far all the potions using his modified recipes have turned out great for me, much better than ever before.”       “There’s nothing wrong with being a dark wizard,” Tom gently objected. Judging by how the other’s face slowly stretched in surprise, he still added: “There is no absolute darkness and absolute light. There is only power. Power that not everyone can cope with.”       “Yes, I guess that’s why some powers can be… dangerous,” Harry swallowed nervously, interpreting Tom’s words in his own way. “But I’m sure the author of these notes wasn’t dark. When I read this… I get the impression that he’s somehow like me. I even wrote to my mum and sent her a copy of the page with the modified Draught of Living Death recipe,” he went on a little more confidently. “To get her opinion on it, since she’s good at potions…”       “Maybe she’s the author? No, she’s Muggle-born, so she would have been the Half-Blood Princess then,” Tom answered himself.       “She laughed a lot, I could feel it even through the letter,” Potter smiled. “She wrote that she recognizes the handwriting but won’t tell me whose it is, at least not until the end of the year. And that it’s safe to use this book.”       “Well, then use it,” Tom shrugged and handed the textbook back. Harry clutched the book to his chest reverently, as if it were his greatest treasure. He asked apprehensively:       “And you won’t tell anyone?”       “No. I promised, and I will keep my word,” Tom shook his head. “You’re not even breaking any official rules. But if you find anything interesting there, I’d be happy if you shared it with me,” concluding the conversation was over, he got to his feet and headed for the exit.       “Tom!” Harry called out. He turned back slowly. “We’ve barely known each other… But for some reason it feels like I’ve known you my whole life. You understand me like no one else.”       “I feel the same way, Harry,” he smiled back. “Me too…”       

***

      The week flew by dealing with piled up chores, writing metres of essays, the rustle of pages, the chanting of incantations, and practising wand movements until his wrists ached. Of course, such additional training had nothing to do with Charms or Transfiguration homework, but was more focused on maintaining form in certain areas of the dark arts. Although Tom didn’t yet dare venture into the Forbidden Forest, it was unwise to forget the skills honed there.       So in Charms class Professor Flitwick happily clapped his hands when he saw the fountain of water from Tom’s wand, which he created while practising the Aguamenti spell, while the rest only managed a thin stream, and not all of them at that. The teacher even exempted him from the written assignment, rewarding Slytherin with more points. And Granger gave him another hateful look — she didn’t get any points for this lesson, even though she handled the task better than the others, though not better than Tom, of course.       McGonagall was not so kind in Transfiguration — she mostly pursed her lips and threw stern glances at the Slytherin half of the class in general and Tom in particular. But she couldn’t deny that he completed the task before the rest again. True, Tom didn’t get any points due to his willfulness — instead of the stupid colouring of eyebrows in Transfiguration practice, he changed his eye colour to red, involuntarily making the prim witch shudder amidst the muffled giggling of the other Slytherins.       “Don’t worry,” Theodore tried to comfort the completely unworried Tom. “Human transfiguration is at the very end of the semester, that’s much more difficult than colouring eyebrows. Why would anyone even need to dye their eyebrows?”       Tom completely agreed with this. He probably shouldn’t tease the teacher like that, but he couldn’t help himself. Some vague itch under the skin demanded he do something, somehow relieve the tension, release energy. So the next Dueling Club session came in very handy.       He had already realised the mistake he made when trying to maintain all the protective charms on the hall himself, which only resulted in exhaustion. He had to go to the headmaster’s office again, bow to Dumbledore, and ask for some artefact to help support the charms. So a clever golden gadget spinning on a thin leg now stood on the fireplace mantel in the Great Hall, and Tom only had to tie all the cushioning pads and absorbing barriers to it. At the right moment, you just had to click the power button.       More and more students who had trained enough accuracy on the mannequins moved to the duelling half of the hall, and Tom was gradually memorising their names. A significant portion of the underclassmen and older girls, of course, dropped out after the first lesson when they realised that training would require intensive sweating and exertion to learn anything. Repeating the same spells over and over until complete automation and cramps in the fingers turned out to be not romantic enough. But that only pleased Tom — he didn’t need to drag dead weight that could only bat eyelashes and distract attention.       The rest, however, were gradually gaining confidence and showing progress. Even Luna Lovegood, who until recently missed the mannequin, managed to hit Ernie Macmillan quite noticeably with a Stupefy. According to rumours, he was supposed to commentate on the upcoming Gryffindor versus Slytherin Quidditch match, which was inevitably looming, causing nervousness in Potter and increasingly caustic jabs from Malfoy, his direct competitor for Seeker.       It seemed the Dueling Club session, where even Snape managed to refrain from his usual malice towards Tom, had just whizzed by, and here he was, standing in front of the mirror in the Slytherin bedroom tying his tie, getting ready for Slughorn’s party. His fingers ran through his hair, distributing a drop of the hair gel he borrowed from Malfoy, and Tom, satisfied with his nod to the mirror, stepped away from it. He had never been a dandy, despite his looks, but always preferred tidiness and precision.       “Done admiring yourself?” Malfoy drawled, fussing with his deliberately carelessly knotted neckerchief. “Let’s go already.”       “You do your hair like girls,” Blaise snorted.       Malfoy gave his short black bristle, through which the dark skin of his head shone, a meaningful look but stayed silent. He just carefully checked with his palms that his slicked back platinum strands hadn’t ruffled.       “I’d do my hair too, if someone had invited me,” Nott sighed, looking up from the textbook he was reading while sitting on the bed. “But my father just works on developing trade standards, which doesn’t interest Slughorn.       “I’m sure he’ll regret not adding you to his collection,” Tom gently encouraged, and the guys left the bedroom, heading towards Slughorn’s office.       As usual at ordinary parties unrelated to major holidays, a round brown wood table with ornate carved backs and soft leather seats stood amid the head of house’s quarters. House elves scurried underfoot, stretching their tiny hands up to the tabletop, placing dishes covered with silvery semicircular lids to keep warm. Expensive porcelain gleamed with its graceful curves, gold edges on the crystal glasses and silver cutlery softly glinted in the bright light of several floating lanterns.       The boys weren’t the first to arrive — the room was already crowded with Ravenclaws, among whose small group Horace Slughorn’s massive figure stood out.       “Tom, my boy!” The predatorily smiling professor opened his wide arms but, to Tom’s great relief, only patted his shoulder in the end. “Here’s your rightful place,” he pointed to the chair on his right.       Malfoy, casting an envious glance at Tom, hurried to take the free seat to the left of the teacher. Zabini sauntered to the next chair, demonstrating by his whole demeanour that such trifles as seating arrangements bothered him little. Potter, who had been awkwardly milling nearby, finally resolved his doubts and sat far from the Slytherins, on the other side of the table. Next to him were the Ravenclaws and another Gryffindor — Cormac McLaggen, a big blond guy.       Hermione and Ginny came through the half-open door, both in dresses, though not too formal, more everyday. They hesitated, assessing the situation.       “Ladies,” Tom nodded.       According to etiquette, he got to his feet with a light wave of his wand, pulling out the last free chairs for the girls next to him. Potter, glancing at him, also jumped up; his chair scraped noisily across the stone floor with a crash. The boy turned red when all eyes turned to him.       Granger surveyed the table apprehensively and chose the farther of the two offered chairs; Weasley, resolutely sticking up her nose, sat in the remaining one next to Tom. Only then did he sit down, mildly surprised to note that only he and Harry had stood up. Had the feud between Slytherins and Gryffindors really gone that far? Or had the gentlemen, even those who considered themselves aristocrats, forgotten their manners by the nineties?       “Quite the gentleman,” Ginny snorted under her breath. Just loud enough for Tom to hear, but not so loud that he would need to respond.       “Now that we’re all gathered, allow me to congratulate you on the splendid start of the new school year!” Slughorn began his speech. “Everyone here is talented, and I have no doubt you will all become outstanding individuals…”       After a couple minutes, when the professor launched into lengthy reminiscences about past years and previous members of his club, Tom, slightly fatigued by the monotony of his speech, began glancing around at the others. Potter, clearly tired from Quidditch practice, was nodding off; McLaggen was eyeing the turkey on the large platter emitting appetising steam right in front of him; Malfoy, who had been listening to the potions master demonstratively attentively and looking adoringly into his eyes at first, was now propping his head on his fist, staring blankly at the buttons on the professor’s waistcoat; Weasley, lost in thought, absentmindedly stroked the polished handle of the fork next to her. Only Granger didn’t take her eyes off Slughorn, listening intently.       ”…and Mr. Avery, you remember him, Tom, now heads the Department of Magical Population Control…”       Tom faltered in his steady breathing for a second and slowly raised his eyes to Slughorn, who didn’t even notice his slip and kept chatteringing. It seemed to have gone unnoticed by the others as well, although Malfoy’s gaze became more alert, and a wrinkle appeared between his brows for a moment. But after a few more tedious phrases he relaxed again and stared at Granger boredly, not very aristocratically poking the table with his finger.       ”…and now let’s assess what interesting treats have been prepared for dinner tonight!”       At Slughorn’s cue the boys immediately perked up, and for a while there was bustle at the table of passed dishes, clinking of spoons and knives, chatter and negotiations. Soon the office was filled with the clink of forks on porcelain and joyful munching not everyone tried to hide. The students talked quietly, grouping off according to interests with their neighbours. The professor watched the children with a delighted paternal smile, glowing with pride as if he had cooked this lavish spread himself.       Ginny reached across Tom for the cheese platter, and he obligingly picked it up and passed it to the girl. She, glancing at him briefly, remarked:       “You don’t have to show off for me, I already saw what you’re really like that first day.”       “Is that when you nearly scratched my face in the hallway?” he smiled softly. “What am I really like then?”       “Self-absorbed and arrogant. Haughty and self-assured, convinced you’re always right,” she said quietly, trying not to attract Slughorn’s attention sitting on the other side, but ardently. Tom leaned towards her, close enough to smell the floral scent of her perfume, and also lowered his voice.       “I try to treat girls properly right up until the moment they force me to do otherwise. Though before I never had to — I haven’t met ones like you until now.”       For a second she froze, not bringing the piece of meat to her mouth, then her fork resumed its journey. Chewing, Weasley pensively continued:       “I don’t even know how to take your ambiguous phrases. Your ostentatious gentlemanliness seems insincere and affected to me. I was even surprised when you helped me up after I fell in the Dueling Club. Of course there were more unnecessary witnesses then than last time. Trying to play good boy in front of the teachers, or do you like it when girls fall at your feet, eh Riddle?”       “I like it. But I like it even more when they get on their knees before me,” Tom said quietly in her ear, already setting aside politeness. He decided efforts to maintain good relations with this uncompromising girl would fail either way.       Ginny, who at that moment took a sip of orange juice from her glass, nearly choked. She swallowed with difficulty, grimacing, and coughed.       “Oh, and when they tie up their hair?” she asked absently when she caught her breath.       “In some situations that really is… appropriate,” Tom shrugged indifferently, also remembering his comment about her hairstyle during practice.       “Wow, Riddle, you’re something else,” she suddenly grinned. “You look like a frozen fish with a perpetual poker face, but you’re quite the pervert. Unexpectedly, I thought you were only capable of jerking off to earn points. Maybe I was wrong about you…”       The girl turned away from him, whispering about something with Hermione. Tom raised his eyebrows in surprise and lowered his gaze to the turkey leg on his plate, as if asking it what exactly he had said wrong?