Chapter 5

"Good morning, Tom," he was greeted. "Did you sleep well?"

He startled up from his bed. That was Dumbledore's voice! He had just sent him to hell in his dreams. His aching eyes wide open, so that they burned, he looked around. Where – bloody hell – was he?

"We're in the Mungos," the professor replied to his unasked question.

Once again Tom let his gaze wander over the room's furnishings. White floor, white walls, a large, soft bed. He even had a grey hospital gown on. It fitted. It had to be be truth.

Relieved, he exhaled. They were out of danger.

He turned his head towards Dumbledore. That the old fool might have been watching him sleep made him feel uncomfortable. "What have you been doing?" he asked when he saw his former professor lying in the next bed.

"Fighting spiders," he replied with a mild smile. "I got a few scratches. Because of the poison, they wanted to keep us both here overnight. How are you?"

He still resented him. Finally he could let it out. "You were going to feed me to the spiders!"

Dumbledore looked at him, unaffected. "I merely used you as bait."

"I didn't agree to that!"

"You didn't?" he asked, confused. He looked honestly confused, but you never knew with the professor.

"No!"

"I thought... – you nodded at me, didn't you? First I nodded, then you. I thought you had given me your approval with that."

Tom swallowed. "I... – I didn't. I thought we were going to fight side by side and drive those critters out."

"Then we wouldn't have taken Lestrange alive. The boy's all right now, by the way. I hope they can forgive me."

He growled something unintelligible. What could he say to that now? Dumbledore knew that Tom couldn't read minds – at least not his. There would have been ways to communicate the plan, that the professor had not used this was entirely up to him. But it was true... – otherwise they would not have got their hands on the boy alive.

"How are you?" asked Dumbledore.

"Fine... – I still feel a bit dazed." The numbness was so severe that he could not even vent his anger properly. He pulled the pillow over his head and groaned.

"That must be the after-effects of the potions. If everything is all right, we can go our separate ways again at lunchtime."

This prospect pleased Tom. He had spent long enough time with the old man.

"I knew I could make you happy with that."

Tom's grin died. Here they went again. How had he actually ended up in the same room as his former professor? The furnishings looked superior. The chairs were well upholstered and there was fruit and water. Books were arranged on the cupboards and tables, all kinds of genres of literature. Never could he afford preferential treatment at the Mungos. Had Dumbledore, for instance... – No…

At the sight of the water, he realised that he was hugely thirsty. Tom grabbed his wand, which was on the bedside table, and floated the carafe over. As he poured and greedily emptied the glass, Dumbledore raised his eyebrows mockingly, "You're still drinking like a camel in the desert."

He shrugged.

"That's why I took the liberty of having the healers do some tests."

"You what?" blurted out Tom. His own voice rang in his ears. He tortured himself with it. "Are you out of your mind? How did you manage to do that? Surely the healers couldn't have agreed to that!"

Dumbledore remained slyly friendly. "When it comes to a wizard's health, they are open to hints. It was lawful."

"I'll have to pay for it," Tom hissed. Then he paused as he met Dumbledore's prompting gaze, "I can't," he gritted. "You know I don't have any money."

"I know," he returned smugly. "You're as poor as a church mouse."

Tom gritted his teeth. If the room wasn't spinning around him, he would have gone over and pressed his pillow on the other's face. He did like to fantasise about silencing his fellow humans – Dumbledore in particular had that effect on him – but this time it was more of an urge than a pipe dream.

"I took the liberty of settling their scores. After all, it's my fault you're here."

Affirmatively, Tom nodded. It was entirely Dumbledore's fault. Paying his bills was the least he could do. "Don't think I'll forgive you for that. You've crossed more than one line!"

"Oh, and you haven't?" returned Dumbledore. "He who sits in a glass house should not throw stones. Why don't you tell me how Myrtle could have died in an accident involving a basilisk?"

He puffed. "I'll do nothing of the sort."

"I just want clarity…"

"Then look into a crystal ball. I'm not stupid after all."

Now the professor looked displeased. "Hagrid's fine, by the way."

Tom grumbled and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He needed to talk to a healer about an earlier release. He couldn't stand this any longer under any circumstances.

At that moment the door opened and a witch and a wizard stepped inside. "Good afternoon, Mr. Dumbledore? Mr. Riddle?"

They both nodded and the pair stopped at the door to the room. The woman humbly bowed her head and clasped her hands. The man had his arm around her shoulder as if to support her. He spoke, "I thank you for finding and saving my son Ryland."

Dumbledore made a waving hand gesture. "You're welcome. The welfare of my students is my business."

Mr. Lestrange narrowed his eyes. "And Mr. Riddle?" He eyed Tom's appearance, but did not let on that he found it disconcerting or repulsive. "You're not employed by the school, are you?"

Tom shook his head. "I just happened to be there and offered my help."

"I thank you on behalf of my whole family. We are deeply in your debt," Mr Lestrange spoke, shaking Dumbledore's hand briefly and then stepping up to Tom's bedside to shake his hand as well. "That is why I would like to invite you to our home. We can get to know each other better over a nice dinner."

Tom grinned beatifically. This was going exactly as he had imagined. "I'm honoured." At last his social ascension could begin. Abraxas' hole would be filled.

"You're invited too, of course, Mr. Dumbledore."

"Gladly, Mr. Lestrange," the professor replied.

"Do you have a preferred date?" asked Lestrange.

Tom's smile died. This was… – inconvenient. It dimmed his joy tremendously. Not only would he be meeting Dumbledore again – they were going by his schedule, while assuming that Tom would always have time.

"Don't go to any trouble. Send me an invitation, preferably on a weekend, that's when I'll be able to arrange it."

The Lestranges nodded eagerly. Then the husband turned back to Tom: "Tell me, do you know my firstborn? He should be about your age, in fact I believe he had mentioned a Mr. Riddle at the time."

"Ryker Lestrange?" Tom packaged it as a question, but he was sure it was Ryker. They had gone to Hogwarts together. "He is a year younger than me."

"Oh, you see, it's such a small world."

The world was big, but the magical society of England – tiny. Basically, everyone knew everyone – at least that was the case with the Slytherins. Tom had been one of the few exceptions in his first year, which had put a target on his back, but also laid the foundation of his mysterious image.

Mr Lestrange was about to say something when the door opened again and a healer entered. With curt words he complimented the guests outside, who said a quick goodbye.

"The test results are in," the healer opened. "We don't have much to tell you, though."

Tom wondered who he meant by 'we', because he was obviously alone. But before he could ask the question, an assistant healer scurried into the room. He stood next to his superior and acted as if he belonged there.

"Will you still ensure privacy, please?" Tom eyed the man grimly, who was fiddling with his clipboard and probably about to lay out Tom's medical condition in front of Dumbledore.

Addressed, he smacked his lips disparagingly and narrowed his eyes. "I don't think that will be necessary."

Nothing more came. As if nothing had happened, he continued to look through the medical records, searching for the results. Or was he trying to provoke his patient? Tom couldn't tell. "Why?"

There were many possible reasons. The professor had just declared he would pick up the hospital bill and it had been he who had instigated the tests in the first place. Still, nothing justified his involvement.

"Because there is nothing to discuss." He had found the papers. "The tests were unremarkable and the one Mr Dumbledore wanted done – we're not equipped to do that."

There was a big question mark in Tom's mind. "What are you trying to tell me?"

The healer sighed surrendered and started again, "We were supposed to test you for the most common wizarding diseases – and we did. With no results. You are healthy."

"And why are you pulling such a grim face?"

"Well – Mr. Dumbledore told me that you are a half-blood and have a non-magical background. Your father was a Muggle, is that correct?"

Tom puffed out his cheeks. "Hmm," he growled.

"So yes," the healer interpreted. "Then it's like this: studies have shown that wizards and witches rarely contract Muggle diseases. It's so rare that most don't even consider it. Only one group stands out – the wizards and witches who are directly descended from at least one Muggle in a direct line. Like you, for example. The likelihood of you suffering from an inherited Muggle disease is increased. But we don't have any statistical figures to say how increased they are, even in the more commonly affected groups there are still few. If you are worried, I recommend you see a Muggle healer – I think they call them a doctor."

He clenched his hands. "Look, it's really nothing new to me," Tom hissed. He would have preferred to shout. "I've already talked to a doctor about it a few years ago. So – I know this. It came out then that it's not the case with me. I don't suffer from any Muggle disease." Darkly, he gave Dumbledore a particularly nasty look.

The latter, however, only smiled back regretfully. It was quite maddening – a deja vu.

When he was fifteen, he had learned about the risk. Back then, with the first signs of such a disease, it had frightened him, but he had soon been able to take care of it. Magic was superior to non-magic in all things. Why, then, should it not be possible to cure a Muggle disease with magic – with powerful magic?

Tom had been able to do it.

Therefore, what Dumbledore observed could not be true. These signs of a renewed illness – they didn't exist. By chance, his teacher had found out about it and interfered, as he was good at doing. What Tom wouldn't have given to take away his memory of it?

"You will know, but don't act against your common sense," the healer warned. Rolled his eyes and leaving the room, he could be heard grumbling: "Others are happy when I tell them they are healthy." His assistant followed him like a dog.

Tom snorted. Who did he think he was dealing with? As the epitome of intelligence, he did not need such an admonition. Hastily, so that he almost fell over, he heaved himself to his feet and gathered his things. Though he had no appointment where he had to be, he could not stay at the Mungos.

"Tom, make no mistake."

He snorted again. Let the old fool choke on his spit.

"It's like that time. Your thirst is immeasurable. They are often in the bath. – You know the signs. You just don't see them because you don't want to see them."

Annoyed, he paused and turned to the professor. "What's it to you?"

Dumbledore swallowed. From the looks of it, he had managed to back him into a corner. "Let me help you. I can't watch you go down," he spoke in a low, yet insistent voice. "Who knows – for Merlin's sake, who you'll take down with you."

Tom laughed. "Take them down with me? Because I don't go to the doctor? Only yesterday you were telling me how messed up my life was, how isolated I was. Who am I supposed to drag along with me?"

"That's not how I put it. You are endangering yourself, if you try to deal with this with dark magic. Boy – it fills me with sadness when I see what you have become. I beg you, let me help. There is no shame in admitting mistakes, it is the first step to a happier life."

Armed with his wand, he was about to leave the hospital room. Dumbledore didn't lift a finger to stop him.

But there, he was about to push open the door, the assistant healer came back in. Brazenly, he stood in his way. "Excuse me, sir," he chirped, his eyes glued wide at the sight of his counterpart. "I think I know what you might have. The healers didn't pay attention, but I could cast a few extra spells. Your – I – Your... – The level..."

"This is unbearable!" hissed Tom.

"Your insulin level is way too low!" the assistant healer spoke breathlessly. "A sign of diabetes mellitus."

A predatory growl crept from his throat. "I know."

The young wizard froze. "You know?" he asked, as if it was incomprehensible why he ignored it. "Sir, this needs treatment! You could die if you don't get this checked out."

He pushed aside the healer who, shocked, took it in his stride. He was half a foot over the threshold when Dumbledore's voice made him pause. "He thinks he could have treated it magically." He too had risen to his feet and with a wave of his wand was ready for dismissal. "Don't you, Tom? You think it can't be true because you've already created a potion against it? Or was it a spell? Is that why you look the way you do? Was that the price?"

Gradually and emphatically slowly, Tom turned to his former teacher. "It worked."

Dumbledore looked him over from head to toe. "Until now, perhaps, but no longer. Whatever you did, I don't think the effect was permanent."

"It is, it will last forever," Tom protested. The meaning of the words that only he knew – that no one could decipher, made the corners of his mouth twitch wildly.

"Let me help you. We'll go to the doctor together and you'll finally get yourself properly adjusted. With everything that goes with it," he suggested. "Or do you want to try your own variation again?" It was a question he didn't want an answer to. Clearly it had failed for Dumbledore.

But Tom knew better. Create another Horcrux? He was going to do it anyway. If he could use it to bring his diabetes back under control – what shpuld to stop him?

Then he remembered – he had almost forgotten something.

In the Forbidden Forest he had had a bag with him – with particularly valuable content. He looked around for it and his heartbeat stopped for a second when he didn't find it. "Where is it?" he hissed like a snake. "What have you done with my bag?"

Dumbledore had an impenetrable poker face on, but that made him look more guilty. "If you want it back, we'll go to the doctor and sort it out."

"This is blackmail!"

"It's the best thing for you! You can't experiment on yourself! With dark magic, as I reckon. I don't enjoy it, but the end justifies the means."

He pressed his lips together. That was not fair. Dumbledore's interest hurt – and he didn't want it anyway. "What's it to you?" he repeated the question that had already thrown the professor off balance before.

"I have to protect the magical world. It is my duty – my need," he lashed out. "And I get the feeling you are no longer just a danger to yourself – no, you are also endangering your fellow man, the entire community. Such experiments can go wrong – they already have," he regarded Tom's appearance with a dark, strange look, "You can make yourself a monster, it is your choice. But you can bring others down with you. Dark magic, especially the kind you've used, is immoral for a reason. It's like a contagious disease that gradually eats through people and jumps from one to another."

"You are exaggerating – dark magic is not forbidden in itself!"

"Because too many underestimate its danger and overestimate its benefits. Because too many think it won't affect them – that they are the exception. Just because something isn't banned doesn't make it legal."

Tom snorted. Not for the first time, the old man was proving he could get in the way of his plans. He wanted to rise in society, to generate prestige so he could rally followers around him. The truth was: Dumbledore was a respected man, looked up to by all wizards. If he wanted to enter the premises of high society, the professor would be waiting for him there. They couldn't keep this feud going so openly. Not if Tom wanted to succeed. A subterfuge was needed. The best one he had ever launched.

He sighed. His throat was dry and craved water. Maybe there was something to it after all? "All right, sir. I agree with you. How can I take your word for it?" he asked humbly.

Dumbledore took his time to work out his next words and Tom could do nothing but wait. "Well, I'm a man of my promises, but I understand that you want insurance." He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a key. "Here, as pledge."

Mildly surprised, Tom turned the silver key decorated with snake effigies. It didn't look like it belonged to Dumbledore. "Your front door key?" he asked boldly.

"A cupboard key and the matching cupboard is at Hogwarts. On the Seventh Floor, next to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy."

Tom remembered passing a chamber carved in stone as he tried to get to the Room of Requirement. The details might fit. "What will I find in it?"

"The books I had removed from the Forbidden Section. I know you're looking for one of the ones."

He had to swallow. That was true and he avoided thinking about how long he had been scouring the libraries for that one book. Few libraries did he have access to. The Malfoys had an excellent dark magic spell book collection with hundreds if not thousands of books, but Abraxas wouldn't let him in. If he could finally hold the book in his hands… – It would be worth it. The bag, his Horcrux diadem and that one particular book... – What a prize!

The fact that he would have to spin an intrigue did not bother him. Dumbledore had no idea what he had acquired, he would still be able to stow his Horcrux safely away. Who knows, perhaps it would be safest in the display case in the headmaster's office?

"All right, I agree. If you break your word, I will keep the key and become the owner of the books."

Dumbledore nodded leisurely. "You will see that I will not do that. Do not try to deceive me. If you do, you will have squandered the last chance I will give you."

Tom made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Where are you thinking, sir? I would never do that."

They both knew he was lying.

Just as Tom was about to say goodbye, Dumbledore grabbed him by the wrist.

He gruffly disengaged himself – he hated being touched without warning and hoisted, "What else?"

"Tomorrow, nine o'clock. I'll send you another owl with the address tonight. Do you have an address accessible to such an animal?"

He clenched between his teeth, "Of course. I don't live under any bridge, if that's your question."

"That wouldn't be a problem. I was more concerned with any protective spells."

Tom sighed, "I'm not on the run."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow."

"Do you have to come?" grumbled Tom.

"I want to see it with my own eyes," Dumbledore countered. "But if you don't care about your bag and its contents, we might as well declare our agreement null and void."

What he wouldn't do to have that book in his hands! And yes... Maybe it wasn't bad to tackle diabetes the Muggle way... – Because really, the symptoms shouldn't have returned. His blood sugar should have been stable... – but it wasn't.

Apparently Horcruxes weren't the answer to everything after all... – It presented him with a great challenge, for what was more powerful than splitting his soul? It made him immortal… – but it didn't cure the Muggle sickness. He sighed. An immense thirst burned on his tongue.

"I will win," he whispered so softly that only he could hear. Then, after a curt goodbye, he disappeared to his flat.