Chapter 3

Although the sun was at its highest, its rays did not reach this special spot on earth. Tom had gathered with the other teachers and prefects at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. In the shade of the fir trees, he persevered and watched as everyone rallied. Once everyone had arrived, Dumbledore, as head of the school and search party, would say a few words to the group and then make a division into partner sections for those who had come unaccompanied.

Silently, he stood at the edge of the meeting and despite his secluded position, he could hear a chatter like a background murmur. It enveloped him like a woolen shawl. People were chatting, exchanging the latest insights and fuelling each other's concerns. Even though the revulsion in the others' eyes infuriated him, he did not look down or avoid their horrified gazes. He made no secret of the fact that he was aware of their reactions. How long would the sight of him turn others into a pillar of salt? He stood his ground and pondered. Suddenly he was interrupted as Slughorn strode up to him.

"Tom, my boy," he greeted him in his former usual manner, but this time he gave a strangely tense impression. Tom could not shake off the suspicion that his counterpart was trying to talk to him against his will, but following an inner compulsion. It was easy to see that Slughorn was also having problems with his transformation. His eyes kept roaming regretfully over Tom's new face. "How are you?" the professor finally managed to say.

Tom shrugged and tried to appear relaxed. A state that was at odds with his inner self. "I'm fine. I'm glad to be back in England. There's no place like home, is there, sir?"

Slughorn hastened to agree with him. "You've been travelling?"

He nodded.

"Where have your travels taken you?" Nervously, the professor tapped his fingertips against his hands. There was much between the professor and his former beloved pupil, but Tom did not value a debate. Slughorn had praised and encouraged him where he could during his school years. In his eyes, his favourite student had been wasteful with the potential of his degree. Fully aware, Tom had made his choices, but he hated to justify them.

"Oh... I really have been restless and incessant. Without too firm a goal. I travelled a lot through the Soviet Union, Poland and Albania," he recounted with a rigid expression, observing even the slightest reaction. The grip on the bag – containing an artefact thought to be lost – strengthened instinctively. Would Slughorn take him up on their disputes?

To make matters worse, the teacher knew of Tom's interest in Horcruxes. Tom hoped that he would never bring this up with anyone else, especially not to Dumbledore.

All in all, there was an interaction between them where much more was spoken with gestures than with words. Slughorn did not manage to look his former favourite pupil in the eye. No joy was to be found on his face. "These are truly extraordinary destinations. Not many British wizards go to the Eastern Bloc. Many are more drawn to the States, to the capitalist antithesis," Slughorn noted, with a forced laugh. "I must say, Tom," he put in, and Tom knew that now came the real reason for Slughorn's effort, "that you have surprised me with your choices."

He nodded in surrender. He had disappointed quite a few people. Slughorn wanted to tell him that too, but he was too cowardly to say it. The Malfoy Christmas Ball had inevitably made Tom aware that people were looking at him critically and judging him. After graduation, he had done nothing of what was expected of him. Of course, everyone was so biased and immediately labelled this as a mistake. "Sir, I am sorry, I should have kept in touch with you," he lied.

Actually, Tom avoided Slughorn. He had nothing to say to his former teacher and he doubted that he could still be useful to him, despite his numerous contacts. The professor did not have the courage to stand up for the right cause. If Tom stuck to him, sooner or later he would block the way. Far too fearful was he. But now he had to choose between Dumbledore and him – it was an easy decision. "I knew it was important to you, but my travels have kept me busy. As we roam the Forbidden Forest together, shall we delve into the subject?"

Slughorn's eyes drifted to the dense trees. He blinked and took his time answering. "I'll pass, Tom. I'm terribly sorry to have interrupted your conversation with Dumbledore. You looked very invested in it, both of you. I really don't want to be the cause of a prolonged interruption."

"That's not a problem, is it? Honestly, I don't want to continue my conversation with the Headmaster," Tom pressed out. They both knew he disliked Dumbledore, so Slughorn's words sounded downright silly to his ears.

But he persisted in his rejection. "Tom, a true gentleman as always," he praised him hypocritically. "But you need not limit yourself on my account. Surely you can't wait to continue exchanging arguments with Dumbledore."

Inwardly, Tom groaned. The prospect of having to spend time with the more than disappointed Slughorn, who was practising awkward silence to boot, might be awful – the certainty of continuing to be tied to Dumbledore, on the other hand, was excruciating. He wanted to protest and cajole the old man until he changed his mind – he really would say anything, he had no codex there – but someone else demanded the general attention.

"Could you all please listen? Come closer, please," Dumbledore began his short speech. "You too, Mr Riddle, don't be shy."

All heads turned to Tom and Slughorn. Those who had not yet eyed him made up for it. Even though the teachers and prefects were well-mannered people, a slight whisper broke out. The pupils were unknown to him, but the professors were without exception the same ones who had taught Tom until a few years ago. Question marks were reflected in their eyes, but none had the courage to say what they thought. Tom took a few steps closer under complete observation and the whispers ebbed away. A teacher next to him slid a little away from him, trying hard to be inconspicuous. Slughorn stayed behind Tom. He could feel the latter's brooding eyes on the back of his neck. He grinned to himself. This was all highly amusing to him.

His joy died when he noticed the Headmaster's look. Tom had just confirmed his accusations – it had not remained hidden from either of them. Dumbledore seemed encouraged. Nothing was hidden from his eyes.

"The following are missing: fourteen-year-old Slytherin student Ryland Lestrange and the assistant gamekeeper, Rubeus Hagrid. Mr. Hagrid went into the forest to check on the hippogriffs, who have been acting rather unusually lately. He said they had been more excited than usual. One or two of them were said to have disappeared without a trace, according to his observations, which could have been the cause of the panic. Mr Lestrange accompanied the trainee gamekeeper on his excursion as part of a punishment work. Neither of them returned. Since it is not known whether they had ever arrived at their destination in the forest or whether they had gone off the trail earlier, we will search the entire area."

Again a clamour of voices erupted, but Dumbledore managed to silence them all with a simple wave of his hand.

"I know this is an almost impossible task and I ask you to remain calm and stick to the guidelines. Do not put yourselves in unseen situations and do not split up under any circumstances. For safety reasons, we will form groups of two, consisting of one student and one teacher. Please do this now if you have not already done so. I understand that Mr Riddle has decided to accompany me." He smiled mildly and it brought a heated anger to Tom's cheeks. "We have joint experience. We had already been an excellent duo two months ago."

oOo

They had been walking in silence through the dark forest for a while when Dumbledore addressed Tom again. Inwardly Tom sighed and kept holding the goal before his eyes. He wanted to save Lestrange, then he would be in his debt. The Lestrange family was a rich and extremely influential family, hardly inferior to the Malfoys in terms of prestige. Tom could not only use such a companion, he was dependent on him after Abraxas had turned his back on him. They had not spoken since the ball and the young Malfoy had the audacity not to reply to Tom's letters.

"How is Mr Malfoy, then?" was the first question Dumbledore asked, of all things. The old man had always had a good nose when it came to stepping on his toes.

"I assume he's fine, after all I haven't heard anything else," Tom replied as vaguely yet as correctly as possible. "How long do you think our search will take?" he tried to steer the conversation to another topic.

"Probably until dawn. I hope you are rested."

Tom nodded and Dumbledore looked at him piercingly, as if searching for something. He decided to ignore this.

The forest path was muddy from the rain the day before and they were making slow progress. Their destination was a clearing where hippogriffs could often be seen. Hagrid was said to have travelled there often.

"So you haven't spoken to Mr Malfoy in a while?" As if to press him, he picked up the pace.

Tom gasped and hurried to follow.

"It is sincere interest that leads me to ask this question."

Frustrated, he ran his hand over his head. He needed supporters, people who were in his debt – but the price was high. "We haven't communicated since the ball. He won't talk to me because of what happened. I'm sure you'll remember it well."

"I have an exceptionally good memory, Tom."

He growled, "Stop calling me that. No one calls me Tom any more but you."

"But it is your name. No matter how hard you try to create a new identity for yourself, you will never get out of your skin. You'll save yourself a lot of pain if you accept that soon." The corners of Dumbledore's mouth twitched. Tom saw it clearly, but he couldn't tell if they did it out of pleasure or regret.

"I've told you many times before: don't interfere in things that are none of your business. You, on the other hand, would save a lot of time if you would finally take this on your head!"

"All right." His counterpart raised his hands defensively. "I didn't mean to hurt you in any way. If I had known you would react so emotionally, I would have chosen my words with even more care."

"I didn't get emotional," he hissed back, only then realising that he had. Time and again this man managed to make him fly off the handle. So much for that. Taking a deep breath, he added, "Abraxas' rejection hit me very personally, especially since I was only trying to help him."

"I see. And now Professor Slughorn, who preferred the fifth grade prefect as an escort."

Tom's hands tightened in his coat pockets. "One has nothing to do with the other. He just didn't want to come between the two of us." They both knew it was a lie.

"Of course, Horace has always been a very considerate wizard, especially when it comes to his favourite former students." Dumbledore's voice lost nothing of its harmlessness and yet Tom could hear the lurking. He himself had often made a threat in this way. "His favourite student, whose attention he didn't like to share with anyone when he was at school. I remember him virtually besieging you. Mr. Riddle this, Mr. Riddle that. He couldn't have had a higher opinion of you. To him you were like a son – a prodigal son, considering you disappeared for years."

"And now I have returned," Tom gruffly interrupted his speech.

"And look at how you were received."

Tom growled. "You want to torture me, don't you? Come on, tell me how unimportant I am to everyone!" He punched through the air and, startled, Dumbledore took a step away from him. "Then I have some good news: I've realised that too. The years of travel have not done my status in society any good. Because I haven't done what everyone expected. Because they think I'm not using my potential – just because I don't want to live their boring lives the. This misstep, which basically wasn't a misstep, ruined my social status – and my appearance, yes. People fear what they don't know. Unfortunately, unlike all the other less talented would-be statesmen, I don't have a big name or a family to back me."

"Tom, it may seem that way to you, but there is no shame in it."

He paused, breathing heavily, wondering how the old fool had found this sore spot. Not even he himself had known there had been such a trigger. Horrified at himself, at how vulnerable and angry he had just been, he vowed never to lose control of himself again.

He took a deep breath.

His mask... - He had already practised wearing it. He only lost his composure occasionally, in fact almost never. It was Dumbledore's dubious privilege to be able to irritate him so much that he lost his temper and could no longer guarantee anything.

A thought flashed through his mind: why – damn it! – could Dumbledore size him up so well? The old fool's knowledge of human nature was incredible; he could take a leaf out of his book, even though he too was a good empath.

"Sir, the way you talk to me, it makes me wonder about something." He ducked, ready to pounce like a cat.

"What do you want to know?" asked Dumbledore hesitantly, sensing that Tom was not asking out of good will.

"You seem to understand me so well that I wonder if you haven't experienced something similar."

Dumbledore stopped. Surprise reflected in his eyes and incredulously, as if he didn't want to trust his senses, he shook his head. "You ask if I have had similar experiences?"

He nodded.

"That's a good question." Already the professor had regained his composure. "Aren't all human lives similar to a large extent? Don't we all experience the same thing at some point: we win and lose, feel joy and sadness. Everyone falls ill once in their life, gets well again and love – surely everyone feels it, too? There is no one who does not lose a loved one and has to learn to deal with grief. Everyone feels abandoned at times, as if the whole world has conspired against them. Traumatic experiences – like the one you had – are common to many people. You are not alone."

"You're avoiding my question," Tom said sombrely. "I wanted to know what you've experienced. And if you'll pardon me, my experiences are hard to compare with anyone else's."

"Because you grew up without parents and were thrown into a completely different world as a child?"

"... – Yes?"

"But even that doesn't make you unique. There are many Muggleborns who have to integrate into the wizarding world. Also, the war has left masses of orphans."

"But I experienced both, at the same time. And it has its consequences to this day. While others rest on made beds, I have to slave hard to earn a living. I had to start at the bottom and I'll never make it to the top, even though I'm much more talented and ambitious than -"

Dumbledore snorted.

"What?" hissed Tom. "Can't you admit that I'm a capable wizard?"

"Yes, you are, entirely. You have more talent in your little finger..." He stopped and was silent.

Invitingly, Tom looked at him.

"You have more talent in your little finger than some people have in their whole body. You can do great things, should you first have the opportunity."

Never would he have thought to hear such words of praise from Dumbledore's mouth. It had to be a dream. He knew in a moment he would hit the hard ground again: Dumbledore did not appreciate him, he might even hate him.

"But you are unstable, I'm sorry to say. Whatever you have done to yourself – in my eyes it cries out for help. I am here for you, even if we have clashed in the past."

Tom pressed his lips together. He did not believe a word the old fool said. The latter knew that he could outdo him and wanted to avoid being outdone. He knew exactly how to deal with such people, but for the moment he had to try to mend fences. Finding Lestrange would promise him the backing of a family. "I'm fine. You're probably projecting your own pathetic mind onto me. You're trying to fight your demons by making me think I have some. I am nothing but a surrogate for your inadequacies." Cockily he grinned. He had done it. He was able to shake off Dumbledore's nagging words sublimely, like one knocks dirt off one's clothes. "That's why you didn't answer my question about your experiences. Instead of thinking about your problems, you want to philosophise about mine."

"I really thought highly of you, Tom, and your anger – I can even understand it. Life has not been fair to you. It was difficult for you from the beginning – I see it, I understand your feelings. But the path you have chosen is darker than this forest and it will consume you if you don't realise it soon."

Tom raised his hand, signalling his former teacher to be silent. An infamous gesture, but the latter actually paused as Tom stalked ahead like a predator. "Do you hear it?"

"Yes," Dumbledore breathed. "There's a clatter of something... hooves!"

Slowly they approached the clearing. It had to be coming from the hippogriffs that gathered there irregularly, but more than occasionally. When they stepped out of the thicket and finally spied the open space, astonishment spread between them.

There were no hippogriffs before their eyes.

Nevertheless, Dumbledore had not misjudged with the clatter of hooves.

It was a herd of thestrals. Black, ribbed horses, made only of skin and bone, with the head of a dead dragon. Carnivores and invisible to those who had never seen death up close.

Tom, like Dumbledore, recognised them clearly.