Death in the mask

      The quill hovered over the parchment. An ink drop had nearly fallen right onto the pristine paper when Tom came to his senses. He spun the quill in his hand to redistribute the liquid. But that didn’t make it any clearer what exactly to write. Naming names or mentioning specifics was out of the question. It wasn’t wise to entrust all this to paper. But how then to convey to Gaunt the information obtained from Regulus? Tom thoughtfully bit his lip, then leaned over the parchment.       Dear Father! I’m writing to inform you of my successes at school: I’ve already held five Dueling Club sessions and have even started deriving a kind of pleasure from it. The students are gradually progressing, Harry is becoming a duelling star. Professor Snape seems to acknowledge my merits and is starting to treat me less guardedly. Regulus Black is also very friendly among the teachers, with whom one can always chat not only about Runes. Everything is the same with Dumbledore and McGonagall, from which I can conclude that the most pleasant teachers at school are the Slytherins.       I recently had a very interesting conversation and obtained important information I would like to share with you in person when possible. I await your suggested meeting time.       P.S. You told me how noisily your friends celebrated Lughnasadh. I hope they didn’t plan anything similar for Samhain. If they did, it’s better to postpone — the times are restless now.       

Sincerely yours, Tom

      Tom was quite satisfied with the result. He had both hinted at the informant and indicated the importance of the information, and warned about the need for caution regarding the Death Eaters' attacks. The brief response brought by the Knight a couple days later bewildered him.       Hello Tom! I understand your impatience to see each other, although I always feel like you’re with me, because you’re in my heart. Unfortunately, I have a lot of work right now. I don’t even have time to meet with friends, but I try not to lose sight of them. I’ll free up a bit only by Christmas. You remember that Mom and I are waiting for you, and your brother misses you? The holidays are worth celebrating with family.       

T.M.R

      Had he not expressed himself clearly enough about the important information? Or did Gaunt really have such significant matters now that he had no time for Tom? In any case, there were just over two months until Christmas, and he very much hoped that in that time Sirius Black would not get too close to the Death Eaters. On the other hand, he had done everything he could to warn Gaunt. He didn’t seem like a frivolous person (of course Tom could not consider himself frivolous), and even if he answered so evasively, he must have taken the warning to heart. Reassuring himself with these thoughts, Tom pushed the necessary information to the back of his mind until Christmas. His first family Christmas.       

***

      On the long-awaited Saturday morning the Slytherin common room buzzed with joyful anticipation, and the house table drowned in green and silver at breakfast in the Great Hall — from traditional scarves to recolored outer robes and painted faces.       “Drakey, don’t worry, better eat…” Pansy cooed, pushing scrambled eggs towards Malfoy, who was nervously drumming his fingers on the table. He was already in green Quidditch robes with brown protective pads on his forearms and shins.       “I’m not worried at all,” he drawled more than usual, annoyed. His gaze didn’t leave the messy black hair sticking out of the Gryffindor’s red and gold sea across the table. “They’re no competition for us.”       “As if you’ve ever managed to snatch the Snitch from under Potter’s nose,” Zabini snorted, although also wrapped in a green scarf. “You have only two chances left.”       “Even if Draco doesn’t catch the Snitch, our Chasers have a chance to negate those points with the Quaffle,” Theodore eagerly provided analytics, for which he earned Malfoy’s furious gaze. Somewhat cowed, he added more quietly: “Weasley didn’t play too well as Keeper last year…”       “Their Chasers are all girls, and the Beaters are newbies,” Draco cheered up a little. “Everyone remember the chant ‘Weasley is our King’? Give them hell, let little Ronnie fall off his broom in shame, and Vaisey and the guys will stuff the hoops!”       Crabbe and Goyle nodded vigorously at their boss’s order, while Tom just shrugged — he certainly didn’t intend to chant chants.       “You are going to cheer on the team, right?” Malfoy squinted at him suspiciously.       “Of course, I’ll always support my house,” Tom demonstratively lifted his casual Slytherin scarf, set aside on the bench during the meal. Malfoy looked at this so-called match preparation with doubt but didn’t comment.       He pushed the last piece of bacon around his plate a little longer and, still not finished eating, got up from the bench. Tom wrapped the scarf around his neck, and they headed towards the Quidditch stadium.       When they went outside, they found that the Gryffindors had only gotten ahead of them by a little. They marched just a few dozen metres ahead, a dense red group over which a huge lion head stood out. Looking closely, Tom realised it was the quirky girl Luna Lovegood’s fantastic fan hat, walking next to Ginny. But despite the Ravenclaw’s quirks, silly appearance and accessories made of butterbeer corks, Tom acknowledged she was working hard in the Dueling Club and progressing quickly.       “Hey Weasel,” Draco called out. “Ready to gift us points already?”       The redhead turned around but suddenly just grinned good-naturedly:       “You’re going to suck today, Malfoy, luck is on our side,” his speech was accompanied by a vulgar middle finger gesture. Draco took a sharp step forward but Tom held him back by the robe.       “You’ll get back at him on the field,” he whispered in his classmate’s ear. The other nodded and relaxed.       “We’ll see who sucks more!” he shouted back. Potter just smirked at that, while walking beside them Granger for some reason gave the guys an extremely angry look in her Gryffindor scarf and turned away from them. Was she finally tired of these quarrels too? Tom could hardly admit such hope to himself.       At the stadium the Gryffindor team headed onto the field, Malfoy also broke away. Tom wistfully watched Slughorn, Black and Snape in Slytherin scarves pass by, heading to the teachers' box, quietly discussing something. He could have tagged along with his “Uncle Horace”, and even Snape’s company wouldn’t have bothered him… But his classmates wouldn’t understand how he could have preferred their noisy, loudmouthed and already quite heated company to that of some boring old men. He had to keep up the act, and Tom approvingly smiled at Theodore, who had also been swept up in the Quidditch fever and wouldn’t stop chattering on about how many goals the Chasers needed to score and what the mathematical probability was of their victory. Following Crabbe and Goyle, who were pushing through the crowd, they took their seats on the stands.       The players in the distance pushed off from the ground and soared upwards.       “Well, the game has begun, and I think we’re all surprised by the team Potter has assembled this year,” the Hufflepuff commentator strained his voice into the mic. “Many thought Ronald Weasley wouldn’t make the team, given his highly uneven performances as Keeper last season, but of course his long personal friendship with the captain played a role here…”       The Slytherin side of the stands met these words with jeers and applause. Tom boredly stared at Potter and Malfoy hovering above all the other players. If only one of them, it didn’t really matter who, would catch the Snitch quickly. Then he could stop freezing here among the crowd and calmly go to the library…       Tom knew that team captain Urquhart had smuggled in a decent amount of Firewhisky into the common room to loudly celebrate their victory. Or get drunk in case of defeat. Slughorn discreetly stays away from the serpents' lair on such days. Yes, slipping away from everyone to the library during the drunkenness would be a good way out. And then quietly sneak into the dorm before curfew under Disillusionment Charms. That’s what he would do. Reassuring himself with this thought, Tom returned his attention to the game.       “Weasley takes the Quaffle. Well, he’s bound to get lucky someday…” the commentator continued.       “That’s not Macmillan, is it?” Tom asked Zabini uncertainly.       “What?” the other reluctantly tore himself away from the game. “Oh yeah, Ernie caught a cold, was replaced at the last minute by Zacharias Smith. He’s on the Hufflepuff team, of course it’s not allowed, but what can you do…”       “I see why,” Tom smirked, while Smith caustically remarked on the physique of the Gryffindor Beater, but Blaise was no longer listening, jumping with impatience on the stands.       “Guys, on three!” he called out impetuously, turning to the back rows. The Slytherins tunelessly sang “Weasley is our King”. However, their song soon died down on its own when the Gryffindor Keeper took two powerful shots from Slytherin Chaser Vaisey in a row, twisting in the air on his broom in an inexplicable way. But the Gryffindor stand sang the same song, only in an entirely different mood. Gryffindor was leading 60:0.       “Looks like all hope is on Draco,” Zabini said mournfully. “Their players are on fire today.”       “It looks like Malfoy of Slytherin has spotted the Snitch!” Zacharias Smith said into the megaphone a few minutes and four more goals later. “Yes, he definitely saw something while Potter was flapping his ears!”       Draco did indeed shoot towards the ground like a green arrow in a decisive lunge. Harry, having missed only a couple seconds, was on his tail and rapidly closing the gap on his speedy broom. The Slytherin stand exploded with roars and wild shouts, fans jumping up from their seats. Tom painfully winced at the noise but also got to his feet to see how this would unfold.       “Go Draco, go!!!” Pansy screamed in his ear.       Suddenly near the very ground Malfoy glanced back at Potter and seemed to stumble in the air. His rival took advantage of the moment and sharply shot forward, snatching the Snitch and coming out of the dive. Draco also broke his broom, even from this distance his bewilderment was visible.       The thunderous roar of the stands drowned out the final whistle, as did the announcement of the crushing score. Then a scream of horror came from the microphone, descending into unpleasant crackling when Ginny Weasley flew straight into the commentator on her broom with gusto. This became the final concluding chord of the ongoing bacchanalia. And who even came up with such wild and suicidal entertainment?       “I’ll knock his teeth out,” Draco fumed as they trudged back to the castle dejectedly. “How could he say that about my father?! It’s just…low! To distract me like that. If not for that, I would have caught the Snitch! Such shame, 250:0, how did they manage it?!”       Tom stayed silent at that. Draco Malfoy accusing someone of being low — what a picture.       “So you’ll be drowning your sorrows in drink today?” he asked casually.       “Yes! You got a problem with that?!” Malfoy barked, turning to him. His grey eyes flashed angrily. “I’m prefect here, not you, remember that finally!       “No problem. You’re prefect, and you’ll drink as much as you want,” Tom shrugged indifferently. Draco snorted and looked away, not even getting the sarcasm.       

***

      Tom’s plan to wait out the party that had turned into a wake for the Quidditch Cup in the quiet of the library worked out well, and after the library closed he carefully slipped past the noisy company sitting on the sofas by the fireplace into the dorm, where Zabini found him five minutes later.       “There you are!” he exclaimed, slightly surprised. “Didn’t see you come in.”       Tom just shrugged, unpleasantly noting that his classmate was already quite tipsy. The next phrase “I need you” made him even more concerned. Zabini grabbed him by the elbow and insistently pulled him back into the common room. Tom grimaced at such familiarity but decided arguing with a drunk guy would be more trouble than it was worth.       “Here, Draco!” Blaise triumphantly announced, pushing Tom forward and leaning on his shoulder to stay upright. “I found someone to go instead of me.”       “Go where?” Tom tensed. Draco, who looked less drunk than the other Slytherins, grimaced:       “I don’t even want to go!”       “No-o-o, little Malfoy, you missed the Snitch, you gotta go to the kitchen for snacks,” the hulking team captain Urquhart sprawled on the sofa cackling nastily. “Consider it a pe-…penalty!” he hiccuped.       “Okay, fine,” Malfoy snorted. “Let’s go with Riddle and Nott,” he glanced mournfully at Crabbe and Goyle, who would have been the better choice for hauling food trunks but were already lying on the carpet snoring, though still quietly for now. An almost empty open bottle that Firewhisky was leaking from lay next to them on the carpet.       Tom winced and vanished the alcohol stain with a wave of his wand. Meanwhile, Blaise finally left his shoulder alone and shuffled over to the same carpet, lying on it and gazing at the ceiling with a blissful smile. Theo scraped himself out of the armchair in the corner with some effort but followed Malfoy to the exit steadily enough, at least not staggering. Tom rolled his eyes to the ceiling and sighed deeply, then still followed his classmates. He had to keep an eye on these drunk lumps so they didn’t get into anything or get caught, especially with curfew coming up soon. Otherwise Granger and McGonagall would be extremely pleased to dock Slytherin a decent number of points.       The wall slid shut behind them, hiding the common room, and Malfoy immediately lost all the unsteadiness of his gait. He was clearly only pretending to be drunk in order to get out of Urquhart’s assignment, and was actually much more sober. Tom almost sighed in relief.       “How are you doing?” he asked Theo, who was walking unevenly beside him as they moved through the gloomy dungeon corridors.       “Okay. I think…” Theo answered uncertainly, breathing alcohol fumes on Tom, who only grimaced in distaste, glad for the concealing half-darkness. And why drink alcohol at all when it turns people into staggering brainless morons?       They reached the right passage. Tom held back a little so as not to give away the fact that he knew where the kitchen was and how to get in. Passing heaps of huge barrels, each of which could hold a Crabbe or Goyle, they stopped in front of the still life painting, and Theo confidently tickled the yellow pear. It was clear this wasn’t his first time. They went into the gigantic room.       Along one of the walls stretched a row of stoves on which you could cook simply unimaginable amounts of food at once. In the middle of the hall was a long countertop with neatly arranged knives on stands, spatulas and scoops in glasses, and many decently carved cutting boards. From the ceiling above the island hung a whole metal-cast iron forest of pots, suspended by their handles, and pans. Built right into the table here and there were gleaming metal sinks the size of small bathtubs. A house elf could climb into one completely. The sinks were now washing the leftover dinner dishes on their own under the supervision of several female elves. Against the far wall stood a row of refrigerators, obviously running on a ton of magical energy.       “Lurdy!” Theo called softly, and one of the elves, swaddled in a Hogwarts crest towel, turned to him, then, happily wiggling her ears, ran up to the guys. After listening to Theodore’s polite request, the little elf rushed off to gather a box of provisions, bemoaning that the young masters were starving, what a disgrace, how could she fail at her job like that.       “We’re not starving…” Theo tried to reassure her but Malfoy, who had been disdainfully looking around until then, shushed his classmate, and he fell silent.       Meanwhile, Tom was examining the giant pots and pans washing themselves in the giant sinks, the cutlery drying itself with a towel, and the potato peeling itself with a hovering knife. All this was directed by a grim-looking house elf who was hunched from his many lived years, and whose face bore the experience of feeding a couple generations of young wizards. And how could such unsightly and not very intelligent creatures do magic so easily without wands?       Right behind the old elf Tom noticed a massive brass espresso machine with polished dark wood handles and shiny levers, which was apparently brewing coffee for the teachers' table. His mouth instantly filled with saliva — he hadn’t had this drink since leaving Slughorn’s house. For some reason it wasn’t served to students in the Great Hall.       “Excuse me…” Tom stepped forward and quietly addressed the stern house elf. “Could I use the coffee machine and make myself a cup of coffee?”       The hunchbacked elf sized him up with a heavy gaze and ground out through his teeth:       “That’s all we need… A wizard making his own coffee in our kitchen. Nukki! Where are you, you dolt? Make the young master some coffee.”       Before Tom could purse his lips at “young master”, there was a loud clang of iron falling to the stones, then a spatula flew out from behind the table with sinks and bounced across the floor. A young elf tumbled after it, sprawling on the stone slabs and pressing the long-fingered palm to the floor to pin down the spatula. Tom watched the scene with wide eyes. The old elf just disapprovingly shook his head.       “And what do you need magic for, you crooked pixie? Get up off the floor, what are you showing the wizards?!”       The elf rose to his feet, gathering his thin limbs together, and with a light gesture tossed the spatula behind his back where it landed neatly in the sink, slowing on approach thanks to levitation charms. Nukki headed to the coffee machine and started doing magic at it, yanking the handles, the device protested with clanking.       “Turn the nozzle all the way!” his mentor barked.       “Maybe I’ll just…” Tom shyly began to offer, craning his neck in an attempt to see what exactly the young house elf was doing to the kitchen appliance to elicit such plaintive sounds, but only got a critical look from the old elf. “One teaspoon of sugar, no cream,” he added in resignation, already regretting his request. Well, he probably wouldn’t get poisoned?       Meanwhile, the elf Lurdy had gathered not just a box of food for Theo, but two medium-sized wooden crates, out of one of which poked a sausage stick under the greasy paper covering the top. Tom finished the last sip of coffee, returned the cup to the elf, and took the heavy load in hand. His mood immediately lifted from the caffeine absorbed by his body, it seemed, straight from his throat, and excitement bubbled in his blood. Theo took the second crate and, sincerely thanking the elves, headed for the exit.       The guys loaded with provisions followed Draco down the gloomy corridors, who clearly felt quite free in the nighttime Hogwarts. Tom kept looking around and listening so as not to run into any professors or, even worse, Filch’s cat at this inappropriate hour. Theo focused all his efforts on carefully placing his feet and not falling over along with the full crate.       “Should we cast Disillusionment on ourselves?” Tom suggested doubtfully.       “If I can’t see my feet, I’ll definitely trip,” Theo sighed, peeking from the side of the box.       “You can barely see them anyway,” Tom shrugged, and suddenly heard another sound from the neighbouring passage. “Shh, quiet!” he hissed at his companions, and they froze in the middle of the corridor.       He listened intently to the rustling and quick soft footsteps, not seeming like Filch’s. And then from around the corner burst a little girl in Ravenclaw robes, probably a first year, and froze in place when she saw the three older Slytherin guys. Even in the half-dark Tom made out the swollen face and tearful reddened eyes. Draco sighed in relief:       “Just a kid. What are you doing wandering here so late, chubby runt? I’d take you to the professors to be punished if I wasn’t busy,” he shrugged. “Shoo!”       The girl, who had been about to say something, choked on her words, and tears welled up in her eyes again. She stood bewildered in the middle of the corridor. Malfoy turned to walk away.       “Draco!” Tom called out in surprise. “You’re prefect! Won’t you even find out if she’s okay and what happened?”       “I’m Slytherin prefect, Riddle,” Malfoy spat contemptuously, pointing at his badge on his chest, then jabbed his finger at the girl. “And she’s Ravenclaw, I don’t have to deal with her. I have other things to do,” he nodded at the crate of food in Theo’s hands, “More interesting than wiping some kid’s snot.       The Ravenclaw darted back into the corridor she had come from, but Tom stopped her with an authoritative voice:       “Wait! Did something happen to you?”       The first-year turned uncertainly, darting a frightened gaze from the tight-lipped displeased Malfoy to the sympathetically interested mask Tom had habitually donned, and after a few seconds finally made up her mind and babbled:       “I sat in the library too long, and when I came to the common room, I couldn’t figure out the riddle the door guardian gave me. I can never figure out those stupid riddles, usually I go in with someone from my house, but today I came late and everyone’s already inside-and-and,” she sobbed but held herself together and continued: “I waited an hour, then went looking for some professors or the caretaker, but no one’s around. I’ll probably have to sleep in the hallway-e-e,” she did break into tears after all and shamefully covered her face with her palms.       “Great, let her keep looking for Filch, it’s not our problem,” Draco shrugged.       “Really? He’ll take her to Flitwick, or even worse — Dumbledore, and she’ll tell how she met three Slytherins who just laughed at her,” Tom raised his eyebrow indignantly, turning to him. “What kind of image of the house do you want to create? Is this how you envision the greatness that our founder, the noble Salazar Slytherin, valued most?”       Draco stepped towards him, and his eyes flashed angrily. It seems he shouldn’t have pushed already furious from the Quidditch loss Malfoy, but Tom simply couldn’t restrain himself when the hot wave of rage swept over him.       “Don’t tell me about the honour of my house! You’re new here, it’s not for you to teach me what Slytherin valued. You’re overstepping, Riddle, and it’s not the first time. What, used to people kissing your ass at Durmstrang? That won’t happen here! I can see what you really are, despite your constant lies!”       Having enjoyed the bewildered expression that appeared on Tom’s face, he continued, lowering his voice to almost a hiss:       “Oh yes-s-s, I notice everything. You wear seemingly simple clothes, but that watch on your wrist is worth at least a thousand Galleons, vintage. My grandfather had the exact same kind, a gift from a school friend. And your shoes are expensive, I saw them in the store where I bought shoes before school. And I don’t hear any German accent from you, you’re English, but for some reason they sent you to school on the continent. Why hide your standing in society, eh? And I’ll tell you why — someone isn’t shy about slipping you money but is shy about giving you their last name!”       “How perceptive, Malfoy,” Tom replied icily and shoved his crate of provisions into Draco’s hands, making him stagger. Only willpower kept him from pulling out his wand and casting Crucio on the insufferable little shit. He experienced a moment’s satisfaction assessing the stunned expression on the heir of an ancient house’s face at being used as a mundane loader. “Except your brilliant deductions are false. Take care of your important affairs befitting Your Highness, and I, for one, will do the work you’re incapable of,” he ended venomously.       Tom turned to the Ravenclaw girl fearfully pressed against the wall, who had unexpectedly become the apple of discord, with difficulty softening his voice.       “Don’t be scared, I’ll help you since our prefect doesn’t know how to fulfil his duties. Let’s go, I’ll walk you to your common room.”       “You’ll regret this, Riddle,” Draco hissed, giving Tom a contemptuous look. “Don’t get in my way. Let’s go, Theo!”       Nott, who had been helplessly blinking during their spat, looked at Tom pleadingly but trudged after Malfoy. One could only hope he hadn’t heard most of Draco’s hissing, and that the other wasn’t foolish enough to chatter about his conclusions. What a pity the confrontation happened with witnesses. If they had been alone, the conversation would have gone very differently, and Malfoy would never have dared open his mouth at him again… Once he was able to open it again, that is. But there would still be a chance. Darkly smiling, Tom headed towards Ravenclaw Tower, lightly beckoning the girl who had unexpectedly become the apple of discord and had even stopped crying from shock, to follow him.