The Imposter Complex

by Notus Oren

Tom Riddle escapes at the end of Chamber of Secrets, and is quite surprised to find that nothing about the future is as he ever thought it would be. Soon, Tom finds himself on a globe-spanning quest to follow the path his forebear blazed and perhaps, at the end, to put a stop to him once and for all.

34. Hunting a Headmaster

The Imposter Complex, Chapter Thirty Four: Hunting a Headmaster.

A/N: Important note, I somehow managed to bungle my upload last fortnight, and replaced Chapter 32 with Chapter 33 in addition to uploading it separately. So if you were caught out or confused by the jump, you should probably go back and reread.

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Returning to teaching life was not nearly as awkward as I had expected. While Dumbledore was searching for an interim Transfiguration teacher, I quickly realised that none of my colleagues save for Snape knew my true identity, and honestly the revelation had barely changed our caustic relationship.

My next class with the fifth year Gryffindors had been a point of apprehension, but the Weasley girl made no indication that she knew. A small relief, for now.

Amusingly, Granger had had the opposite reaction. Knowing nothing of my identity but aware of my membership to the Order, she was tossing out knowing grins and nods whenever we encountered one another. Clearly subtlety wasn't a strong point for her.

:—:

Krum and I had agreed to meet at the Order headquarters the Saturday after the inaugural meeting, to begin our hunt for Karkaroff. I had arrived early with a bundle of travel records I'd sourced from Mikhael of Garasham. The Upir had not asked why I needed them, but had asked that I not cause too much of a ruckus in his House's sphere of influence.

I busied myself with slowly filing through the documents, bemoaning that I hadn't managed to rope Sirius into helping me out with this.

Thud

I looked up abruptly from my work, startled. I had been so engrossed in my reading that Krum had managed to sneak up on me and slam down a heavy plastic bottle of amber liquid, followed by a pair of stout wine glasses.

'Good morning to you too.' I said, a bit bemused. I eyed the bottle. 'A little early for kick-ons, isn't it? Not even eleven yet.'

The Bulgarian chuckled, both at having startled me and at my words, and sat down across from me with a flourish.

'We must make a compact, you and I.' He said cheerfully.

'Oh?'

'Da. Karkaroff is a stupid man, but he is surprisingly good at fighting. Deadly, most of all when backed into a corner. If we do not catch him surprised, things could become ugly.'

He unscrewed the cap of the bottle, and poured two generous portions. He pushed one towards me, and picked up the other before continuing.

'I will not go into a fight with a man I have not had, uh, kick-ons with. So we drink now, before we start the hunt.'

I smiled, and scooped up my glass. 'Well, when you put it like that.'

'Nazdrave.' He said, clinking his glass against mine, before slamming the entire thing in one go, without a trace of a flinch.

I attempted the same, but was caught off-guard by its strength, searing my throat all the way down. I choked, and coughed violently, and Krum roared with laughter.

'W-what is that shit?' I managed to get out.

'Rakija!' Krum proclaimed proudly. 'You are not normally meant to drink it like that, but I can never resist doing that to you British.'

I snorted. Now that the shock had passed, the plum-ish aftertaste was actually quite pleasant. Not too dissimilar to wine, if it were at least thrice as strong.

'How kind of you. Did you do that to Hermione too?'

Viktor grinned. 'Of course, the first time she came to visit me. She was not very pleased.'

I thought about how Granger behaved as my pupil, always so studious and responsible, and chuckled at what her face must have been like.

Viktor managed to cajole me into another glass - enjoyed properly this time - before we finally got back onto the day's actual work.

:—:

Dumbledore came to visit my office the next evening, a phial of Potter's blood in hand.

'So Harry's awake then.' I said apprehensively, as the Headmaster set the container on my desk.

'Yes, the Healers brought him out of his healing coma this morning. He and I have spoken, and I have explained your situation to him.'

'How much of it?'

Dumbledore conjured a squishy armchair across from me, and settled down into it without an invitation. I scowled.

'I elected to be fully honest with him. I'll give you a moment to formulate whatever jokes you wish about how that would be a novel concept for me. Alas, I'm afraid Gellert has already made most variations on that particular jape already.'

I shut my mouth with a snap, having been milliseconds away from doing exactly that.

'So he knows I am - was - the Diary?' I asked finally.

'He does.'

'How did he... take that?'

Dumbledore looked almost apologetic. 'Not terribly well. I did my best to assure him that you were now committed to our cause, but I do not think he fully believed me.'

I grimaced. 'Is he returning to class tomorrow?'

'No. The Healers have found some troubling spell effects lingering on his body, they wish to keep him under observation a while longer. Perhaps another week or two.

'Praise Merlin for small favours.' I muttered, to which Dumbledore actually had the nerve to chuckle. I was not looking forward to that encounter.

We spoke a while longer on administrative matters, before the Headmaster took his leave, and I headed home.

:—:

I stood before the Stroj na golema, contemplating my mirror image as it bobbed gently within the tank.

I carefully poured out a small portion of Potter's blood into a receptacle, and snapped it shut. A quick fiddling with the controls, and the clone shuddered as it was infused with Lily Potter's magic.

I was in the unprecedented position of having to exchange bodies whilst my current one was fully intact, and I wasn't entirely sure what I should do with it.

Stick it in the tank? That would keep it nourished and healthy, but its genetics were cemented now. I would not be able to apply augmentations to it, nor grow a third body alongside it.

But I could hardly discard such a healthy sleeve either; it would leave me vulnerable for months if something were to happen to my new one. I bemoaned the fact that it would take months, if not years to create a second cloning device.

Eventually, I elected to store my old body in the tank. It was simply the safest option.

I let the Stroj na golema drain out, leaving my new body standing proudly before me, unseeing eyes staring blankly ahead. I set about carving into it with a scarification curse.

It was no longer a necessity to make this body indistinguishable from its predecessor, but there was a different sort of vanity at play in the act. These scars told my story, even if I was the only one who could read them in full.

My gaze passed over my own naked form, lingering on the old injuries. The circular burn scar on my chest from the Quidditch World Cup, the slash marks on my flank where the Strzyga had gouged me. That ropey scar from my ill-fated trip to Ibiza, the circle around my forearm where a Terracotta Warrior had cleaved me. The little circle on my chest, where Yokai had come closer to killing me than any other.

It felt like something was missing...

I cast the curse again, marring myself in places none of my forms in the modern era had experienced.

A ring of tooth-marks on my right shoulder, my battle with the Cerastes at Mount Oeta. The twin stab marks between my spare ribs, that hedge-witch in Hungary. The ragged tear on my forearm, from before I'd learned how to make Mister Wool fear me.

I smiled. My life's story, together at last. Time to step into it.

:—:

I huddled in my fur-lined coat, and stealthily recast my heating charm. It did little to dispell the searing cold that slithered down my spine. Not for the first time today, I cursed myself for not adding cold resistance to my suite of augmentations when I had the chance.

'How are you not freezing your bollocks off?' I grumbled to my companion.

Viktor looked across the taxi at me with a smile. 'What, you mean this? It's just a little autumn chill, this is nothing!'

I scowled. 'We didn't all spend our formative teenage years on a glorified glacier, Viktor.'

His grin only widened in response, and I looked away.

We were speaking in Bulgarian - Krum's native tongue. The man had been overjoyed to learn that I spoke it, though I had neglected to mention that I had plucked the knowledge from his own mind.

I gazed out the foggy window of the taxi, but all I could see was sleet, and snowblasted tundra. This blizzard had apparently been raging over the northern reaches of Murmansk for almost two weeks, and was showing no signs of letting up. Our cab may be far more modern and comfortable than the one Sirius and I had shared in Poland, but its air-conditioning was ill-equipped to deal with temperatures like this.

'How much further?' I barked to our driver in Russian.

He shrugged. 'All of this snowfall makes it difficult to say. I'd say around forty minutes?'

I growled, and pulled out a piece of parchment, careful to keep it faced away from the driver's rear-view mirror. It was a perfect, live-updating meteorological map of the blizzard over Murmansk Oblast. The blizzard had shifted little in the last few hours, and nor had the marker that indicated its centre-most point: The small town of Murmashi.

:—:

'Okay, anywhere along here is fine.' I said, examining the map closely.

Our taxi came to a slow and careful halt, and I pulled out a large wad of ruble notes. I tossed them at the driver, not really caring to count them. It would work out to more than enough.

Krum and I trudged through the bitter snow, down the street to where a garish neon sign declared a pub as "Farmhouse" in Russian. The muffled sounds of Slavic techno blared from within, and as we approached the sounds of voices could just be made out as well.

We pushed into the building. It was an unremarkable pub from within, the sort of thing you would expect in any small town. A gaggle of young men and a few women were loudly hollering and dancing in the side of the room. At first glance, it looked like a birthday party or something - they must be determined, going out partying in this weather.

Some older men were scattered around the edges though, including one man with a thick and curly beard, quietly drinking from a featureless bottle of transparent liquid. He wasn't looking at us, but my eyes narrowed.

We made our way to the bar, and ordered a pair of vodkas. I reached back into my coat, and gripped the little ceramic cylinder within. I pressed my thumb down on the little iron spike that jutted out from one end, drawing blood.

I passed the cylinder to my companion, who did the same thing. When the bartender wasn't looking, Viktor set it on the bar and twisted the top. I felt the featherlight brush of an anti-Apparition jinx flow out across the entire room and beyond, but not lingering on myself or my companion.

Say what you will about Aurors, they have some cool toys.

The effect on the man with the thick and curly beard was immediate; he leapt to his feet, whipping a wand out of his coat. His very not-drunk gaze focussed on us, and widened. He thrust his wand skyward.

'MORSMO-ARGH!'

In an instant, Viktor had flung out a curse, and it had caught Karkaroff right in the hand. With a sickening slicing noise, one half of his wand went flying across the room, accompanied by a couple of fingers.

I turned my own wand motion, a millisecond behind Viktor's, into a wide-area hex that had every muggle in the room simultaneously slump to the ground.

Viktor looked around him as Karkaroff wailed in agony. 'Good thinking. Are they...?'

'Just unconscious.' I confirmed, silencing the jukebox with a quick spell. 'No need to bring the Russian Ministry down on our heads over this.'

Viktor nodded stoutly, and we approached Karkaroff. I chuckled at the crippled man.

'And here you had me all excited and ready for a fight, Viktor. Talk about a let-down.'

Viktor stemmed the bleeding from the Russian wizard's hand, and seized him by his beard.

'Hello Igor. Sorry to interrupt your attempt to run away. It's your star pupil, here to help!'

'Please!' Karkaroff sputtered. 'I'll give you whatever you want Viktor!'

Viktor looked disgusted. 'You did that already, kuchka! Three years of fawning and you still sicken me!'

'H-how did you find me?'

Viktor snorted, and shoved a hand into Karkaroff's coat. He drew out a small iron ingot, weathered by great age. He looked at it, grunted, then offered it to me.

I inspected it for a long moment. Carvings in Emeg̃ir script coated the small magical device, and I quickly deciphered their purpose. I let out a short laugh.

'Smart enough to repurpose a rainmaker to create a blizzard, not smart enough to realise it would paint a bullseye right on top of you.'

Karkaroff whimpered. 'Please, don't hand me over to the Dark Lord. I have gold, lots of it!'

'Pilfered from the coffers of Durmstrang, no doubt.' Viktor sneered.

'We're not with the Dark Lord, Karkaroff. We're here to find out all his little secrets.'

Karkaroff's eyes widened. 'Not with...'

Faster than I'd have thought him able, and too fast for us to stop, Karkaroff shoved his remaining fingers against his other forearm - where the Dark Mark lay.

Krum socked him across the face, hard enough to knock out teeth. He swore brutally in Bulgarian.

The anti-apparition cylinder chirped - three times. I whipped around to look it. Chirps, not beeps. Chirps from this device meant only one thing: Someone tried to apparate into its field of effect. No wizard was registered as living in this area; we'd checked.

'We're about to have company.'

Viktor looked grim. 'Death Eaters?'

'Or Aurors. No way of telling.'

'Fuck. How much time?'

'Cylinder's got a mile radius, so long enough for a getaway at least.' I said. I seized Karkaroff by the shoulder, and yanked him to his feet. 'Let's get this idiot out of-'

BOOM!

The front of the building exploded inwards. I thrust myself in front of Viktor and Karkaroff, slabs of brick and timber crashing against my enhanced frame. Viktor yelled and Karkaroff shrieked. The unconscious muggles did not fare so well.

The dust was thick, but not enough to shroud the man on the other side. Barty Crouch Jr. hovered in the cold air, ignoring the buffeting wind and sleet. His grin was mad, stretching his scars grotesquely. His left arm, sleeveless despite the cold, gleamed bronze.

His wand whipped into motion, a jet of emerald light surging at Karkaroff. A twitch of my own wand brought a dining table to life, heroically flinging itself in the path of the spell.

'Viktor, take Karkaroff and get out of here.' I commanded. 'Crouch is mine!'

A volley of blasting curses seared forth from my wand. Crouch did not block, as I expected. He jetted skyward, above the ceiling and out of sight, letting the curses sail across the street to blow the roof off someone's house.

I leapt to the side just in time, a cleaving wave of destructive energy crashing down through the ceiling, blowing apart the floor where I'd just stood.

Crouch slammed down through the hole he'd made, his eyes afire with rage. He recognised me, how sweet.

I slapped away his confringo, and stomped down hard on the ground, whipping my wand high. A spike of concrete, razor sharp, shot up at his chest, floor tiles flying everywhere. but he threw his bronze arm in its path. It exploded into a hundred pieces of rubble, which fired off like a shotgun at me.

I copped the blows to the chest, uninjured but staggered by their force. Crouch pressed the attack, forcing me to go on the defensive.

It could be worse, he could have still been able to do that simultaneous casting bollocks.

I heard Viktor shout behind me, and the sounds of spellfire. Crouch's mates had caught up with him. Damn it, how fast could these rat-bastards fly?

I barked a short phrase in Yiddish, and every piece of cutlery in the bar came to life, bombarding Crouch with a flurry of metal. He cried out, and I chanced a glance over my shoulder.

Viktor was duelling a pair of wizards in Death Eater robes, and winning by the looks of it. But Karkaroff was nowhere to be seen. Fuck.

I rounded on Crouch, hammering his defences with siege spells. He had a dining fork skewering his right elbow, and it was killing his spellcasting speed. I had no intention of giving him the chance to yank it out.

Of all things, it was an Expelliarmus, tossed out as an afterthought, that slipped under his guard. His wand was torn from his hand, flipping end over end through the air, lost in an instant into the blizzard.

What happened next was so swift I barely processed it. I cast a cutting curse, aiming to sever Crouch's metal arm from his body. It sailed across the distance between us, only for him to raise his bronze forearm in reflex to meet it. The spell rebounded, shooting back thrice as fast, and slashed across my forearm. I yelped... and dropped my wand.

Crouch and I froze for a split second, equally shocked. The wooden shaft fell gracefully, seeming almost to be in slow motion.

It hit the ground with finality, and in that instant Crouch exploded into motion. He flew at me, metal hand seizing me by the throat and lifting me, slamming me through the rear brick wall of the bar.

He slammed me into the snow and ice of the road outside, squeezing brutally, trying to strangle me one-handed. The bronze arm was the strongest thing to strike me since the Daemon, and I was already getting light-headed.

I punched Crouch in the face with every ounce of might I had. His skull should have caved like an egg, but instead he just reeled, stunned. His grip loosened, and I felt blood returning to my brain.

A blow to his solar plexus flung him off of me. Whatever Lord Voldemort had done to him, it wouldn't be enough to save him. I leapt to my feet, cyan flames surging to life in my fists, fuelled by sheer will.

Crouch leapt to his feet, furious. Wands were forgotten entirely, we crashed against one another like titans of old. Turquoise sparks seared at his jacket as he shuddered back from the impact, and I swung for his face again.

The bridge of his foot slammed hard against the inside of my knee, throwing me off balance, my punch going wide. I staggered, dropping to one knee, and a bronze uppercut sent my whole world spinning out of control.

The fire around my hands sputtered and died as my focus floundered, and I leapt forward, thrusting out my good knee on sheer gamble. I was rewarded by the feel of his cheek crushing against my kneecap, the Death Eater stumbling back just as hard.

We whaled on one another, brutal blows that would have killed regular men in an instant. I was tougher, and more experienced at muggle brawling, but Crouch was faster, and that accursed arm made him far stronger. I tried to put distance between us, that I could blast him with lightning or summon my wand, but he hounded me without a second's relent, driving me ever backwards.

He caught my forearm in that bronze grip, right where the shallow gash through coat and flesh had marred me, and squeezed. I felt my bones groan under the pressure, and I cried out in agony.

I thrust forward with a savage headbutt, my forehead crashing into Crouch's nose with a sickening crack, and I felt the cartilage beneath split. He released me with a howl, which turned to a gargle as my good hand came up in a fist to careen into his throat.

He swung wildly, but missed, and I caught him hard in the floating ribs. He went down, spluttering and groaning. I could have pressed the attack, continued to beat him into the snow and slush with my bare hands. Instead, I leapt back, rubbing my hands together feverishly before he could recover.

Crouch's dazed eyes went wide as my hands came alight with sparking electricity, drawn through a deadly kata. He knew what it meant.

He tried to flee, jetting into the sky in a blurring zig-zag, but it was too late. My magic whipped across the space between us, forcing the electrons from Crouch's body even as they focused en-masse in my pointing fingers. The snowstorm split in twain with a mighty roar, and Crouch felt the touch of lightning for the second, and last time in his life.

He fell from the sky, smoking, crashing hard onto the pavement, the snow doing little to shield him. He didn't move.

My hands flopped to my sides, and I let out a heavy sigh. I looked to my left, just in time to see a muggle woman whip her head out of the frame of her living room window. Ah, right. Yes. I'd almost forgotten we were smack bang in the middle of a muggle town. The Russian Obliviators were going to have a field day with this.

I approached Crouch's body cautiously, summoned flame hovering above one hand. As I came near, he let out a low groan, and slowly started to try to push himself up. Fresh burns mingled with old scars, the man was ghoulish to behold.

He spoke, seared lungs turning his voice into a raspy whisper I could barely make out over the blizzard. 'You... the Dark Lord knows who you are... he will revenge me...'

'Perhaps.' I said coldly. 'But you won't be there to see it.'

I seized his skull from behind in a vice grip. Whether he was in too much pain, or too weak to command it, his bronze arm did nothing to fight back. My other hand grasped his jaw, and I twisted as hard as I could. Bone splintered with a crunch, and his rattling breath ceased.

I dropped the corpse on the ground again without ceremony. In death, Crouch's arm had become a solid statue, striking the concrete with a metallic thud. As the adrenaline drained from my system, the searing cold of the blizzard and the pain of my injuries rushed back in, and I realised my right forearm was soaked in blood.

My battle with Crouch had taken me a good few blocks from the pub we'd started at, and I didn't much like the idea of apparating in this state. It took a few extremely unpleasant minutes for me to limp back there.

Viktor stood in the carpark, above the bodies of his two opponents. Alive, by the look of them. He was casting spells to no visible effect, his expression as stormy as the weather.

'Good to see you haven't lost your edge, Viktor.' I had to almost shout to be heard. I managed a small grin, though it may have looked more like a grimace. 'Where did Karkaroff go?'

Viktor scowled into the howling wind. 'That is what I am trying to determine. It seems like he has got something blocking wizard-revealing spells.'

I made my way through the wreckage of the restaurant, scooping up my wand. I plucked the anti-apparition cylinder out from behind the miraculously intact bar, tucking it into my coat.

I healed my arm and other injuries, not yet looking back at my companion.

'Sounds likely. He can't have gotten far, not with this field still up anyway.'

'No, I suppose I couldn't have.'

I whipped around. Karkaroff, a kitchen knife held firmly against Viktor's throat. I gave the latter a withering look.

'He sneaked up on me!' Viktor said defensively, before abruptly shutting up as Karkaroff pressed the knife harder against him.

'I remember who you are now.' Karkaroff spat in English. 'You maimed my students once!'

'I did.' I admitted. 'Just for spitting in my face. Imagine what I'm going to do to you.'

'I don't think so. The pair of you are going to apparate me away from here, unless you would like to find out if Quidditch stars bleed the same colour as the rest of us!'

I dismissed the sudden feeling of déjà vu, and plastered a sneer across my face.

'Not going to happen, Karkaroff. You've miscalculated.'

'How so?' Karkaroff snarled.

'You've drastically overestimated how attached I am to my companion. You value your life far more than I value Viktor's.'

Karkaroff scoffed, but I could see the doubt spring into existence behind his cold eyes.

'I have a wand and you don't, Igor, and I am really not in any fucking mood to mess about. Drop the knife and come in quietly, and I can guarantee you a nice comfortable cell to wait out the war in, at which point you can go free. Slit Krum's throat, and I'll torture you to death right here. Your choice.'

Karkaroff hesitated, and I saw a trickle of blood start from Viktor's neck where his hand had shook.

'Kúrva!' He spat, and shoved Viktor away from him. 'Fine, I'll come qui-'

I cut him off with a stunning spell, and the old wizard crumpled to the floor.

Viktor kicked him savagely in the side, and swore. 'I told you he was a sneaky son of a whore.'

'True enough.' I admitted. 'Are you alright?'

'Fine.' He said, fixing his neck with a quick episkey. 'Let's get this wretch out of here.'

I looked at him askance. 'Not upset about me saying I didn't care if he killed you?'

Viktor shrugged. 'Of course not, you were clearly intimidating him into surrendering. I'm not an idiot.'

I quirked a tired eyebrow. How refreshing.

:—:

'Tom! Check the Daily Prophet. Now!'

I scowled blearily up at the big shaggy Patronus that had bounded into my room to wake me with its blinding light, and spoken with Sirius' voice.

It dissolved before me, thrusting my bedroom back into pitch-blackness. Even still, that little light-show had thoroughly woken me up. I picked up my wand and jabbed it loosely at my window. The heavy curtains rolled back, letting in the autumn Sun.

If Sirius had only just gotten his copy of the Prophet, it was probably around eight in the morning. Much too early for a Sunday morning, especially given how Viktor and I had ended up drinking ourselves into a Rakija-fuelled haze in celebration. We hadn't yet gotten to hear Karkaroff sing, but Dumbledore planned to interrogate him tonight.

I dragged myself out of bed and down to my kitchen, just in time to catch the mail owl before it gave up on delivering my newspaper.

The owl tried to bite me as punishment when I reached for the newspaper, looking quite put out when it failed to draw blood. I gave the wretched creature its money and unrolled the newspaper.

The front page was a disappointment, just some wartime announcement by Minister Bones that I'd already known about. Surely that couldn't be what Sirius was talking about.

It was not until page three that my blood ran cold.

Terracotta Army vanishes from dig site!

Ah. Fuck.

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A/N: Please follow and review.