Chapter 6

Dumbledore was a fool – manipulative, but nevertheless a fool. There was no way Tom would let himself be taken by surprise again. Even if he didn't think his Horcrux was in immediate danger, he wanted to get it back. On top of that, the promised books. Dumbledore had only offered it to him as a pledge, but he wouldn't be him if he wasn't able to fiddle his way out of it. He would outwit the professor.

His small flat in Knockturn Alley was on the top floor of a potion ingredient buying and selling shop. Business had been better before. They had never recovered from the recession caused by the war, barely surviving. A few customers and suppliers came in and out every day. Then there was the shopkeeper, who was also Tom's landlord and who occasionally looked after the upstairs. The house was built so poorly soundproofed that Tom could hear the front door slam as soon as new visitors arrived. He could have put a spell over the flat, but that would have shut out other noises. He didn't have to accuse himself of paranoia. The danger of a fire or a street fight between two hostile wizards was real.

Because of the full warehouse, the scent of herbs, sage and lavender drifted up into his flat. The pleasant, if slightly intrusive, aroma clung equally to each of Tom's garments. He had the smell in his nose even when he was out and about.

Annoyed, Tom lit a small oil lantern in the living room, fetched a book from the bedroom and dropped into an armchair. The upholstery was so worn that the original colour – a strong blue – was barely recognisable.

In his hands was everything he needed for an excellent ruse – a thin book with a worn cover and yellowed pages that he had bought in a second-hand bookshop. Unlike in the Muggle world, there was no magical library freely available to everyone. The subject of the explanations were locating spells and he would use them on the cabinet in question. After all, he had part of it with the key and could cast a pars-per-toto spell. It would work, though not necessarily the first time.

In fact, it took until late afternoon. From memory and with pencil and ruler, he had drawn a map of Hogwarts and directed a spell onto it. Tom had to admit, it was much more work in practice than in theory, but he was a resourceful wizard and right in his element. A tingle ran through his fingertips, pinning the basic sketch of Hogwarts to the table as a red dot lit up.

It had worked – after countless attempts and then not properly: the dot had appeared in Hogwarts' lands. That was more than strange. Either the spell had gone wrong again, but then how had the mark come about? Or Dumbledore had lied to him and the cupboard was not on the seventh floor.

A bookcase in the lands? Between the field and the meadow? Between the black lake and the Forbidden Forest? Again he checked his spell for errors, but the result remained unchanged.

It could not go on like this. By now it was evident that he was missing something, but only what? It seemed within his grasp, all he had to do was reach out and close his fingers. The hot, black tea peeled bitterly on his tongue.

A flash of epiphany flashed through him: Dumbledore had placed the cupboard outside Hogwarts for protection – in Hogsmeade. He was annoyed that it had taken him so unspeakably long to come to this realisation. Fortunately, he was still one step ahead of the professor.

Tom drew a ground plan of Hogsmeade and was able to narrow down the location to one building. Then he apparated.

oOo

The sun shone horizontally in Tom's face. He squinted his eyes to make out at least a few outlines. Gritting his teeth, he continued on his way. Soon darkness would arrive, and then he would be relieved of this suffering. Only a weakling feared the darkness. For Tom it was a protective companion.

The snow lay only in last remnants like a beggar by the wayside. The narrow streets between the slate-grey houses were bustling with activity. The sun's rays had lured people out of their hiding places and many had not yet returned there. The shops – and Hogsmeade was a commercial hub – offered plenty of entertainment. He almost bumped into a couple who were strolling towards him as if they had all the time in the world. At the last moment, he had managed to dodge. He pulled the hood of his cloak deep into his face, not wanting to leave any lasting impressions. A description of his person was easy to make with red gleaming eyes. Dumbledore would have quickly put one and one together. Like a shadow he fled past the people. There was wild chatter around him and no one thought to give him a glance.

Without hesitation, he entered the inn. Little bells rang, but no innkeeper stood inside the small taproom. Two tables were occupied in the corners and three people were also sitting at the bar. Little light penetrated through the windows. The furniture was made of dark wood and gave the interior an eerie atmosphere. Grey stone slabs paved the floor. Tom looked around but could not spot a cupboard. He probably had to look behind the bar or in the back and guest rooms of the pub.

He had only been in the Hog's head once or twice. Not for intoxication, but because the landlord's discretion was known far beyond the borders of Hogsmeade. Everything was the same to him as long as you paid your tab. It was no wonder that it had reached Dumbledore as well. Tom was sure that the professor had a lot to hide and had managed it just fine so far. No one had such a clean slate as the fine society attributed to Dumbledore. How much he had paid the innkeeper to hide his books?

As he stood at the bar, the innkeeper peeked her head out from the back room. Her long, frizzy curls hung in her face and with a smile she shook them aside. She had a dark complexion and dimples when the corners of her mouth twisted into a broad laugh. Many small laugh lines dug into the skin around her eyes and there were greyed strands in her black curls. She had to be about Dumbledore's age. "Young man, how can I help you?"

"I'd like a black tea," he ordered, but she just looked at him as if he had made a bad joke.

Glancing at her watch, she said, "Sure, not even a beer?"

"An Assam," he spoke in a voice that made it clear he was in no mood for discussion or even conversation. "I am waiting for someone", he lied and it made her calmer.

She brought it to him and went back to the back room. "Call me if you want anything."

That was good, she was probably busy for a while longer. Tom sipped his drink for his alibi and gave the impression that he was waiting. The shadow of the hood still hid his features and he was careful not to make eye contact with anyone. With a clear picture of the hustle and bustle in the taproom and half emptied, he left his tea on the counter. The snake-headed key clasped in his pocket as he stole away with silent steps.

In the back room of an aging kitchen, he found neither the landlady nor the cupboard he was looking for among piles of dirty pots. He held his nose, for it smelled of mouldy leftover food. Surely there were also a few mice that had found their paradise there. Tom lost his appetite. He crept up the stairs and there, opposite the landing, it stood.

A sinister cupboard made of dark ebony, decorated with silver snakes. It took only one look to know that his key must fit. Quietly, he put it in the lock and turned it to the side. A click. The door opened.

Inside, neatly arranged rows of books were revealed. Tom was triumphant inside. He was so close to his goal. Nimble-eyed, he skipped over the titles and found the one.

There it was, right in front of him. He reached out for it.

His heart beat faster. Adrenaline shot through his veins.

The Necronomicon!

It was his at last.

He picked it up on the shelf and stroked the leather cover reverently. The roughened material rubbed against his fingertips. He would spend the next days and nights studying these pages, he could hardly wait. That Dumbledore, of all people, had provided him with this precious book was a finger of fate. He had travelled halfway around the world to hold such a copy in his hands, thinking Dumbledore would not let him within reach of the Hogwarts copy.

Highly concentrated, he looked at the book. Could there be another catch somewhere?

As if his thoughts had provoked it, movement came to the rest of the books. They slid forward, towards him and over the edge of the shelf. He could not move out of the way so quickly. The heavy tomes fell on his toes.

Tom winced and a strangled cry of pain and cursing escaped his throat.

"So it's the Necronomicon that's making you go through this ordeal."

Once again Tom flinched. That voice – Dumbledore's – didn't fit a protection spell.

With a nimble hand, he grabbed his wand and ducked towards the voice.

At the level of the shelf, he could finally see the hole in the wall that had been hiding behind the rows of books. The cupboard had been a dummy. Dumbledore was enthroned on the other side, smiling smugly at him.

He clenched his jaws.

With an unsaid spell, Dumbledore summoned the book to him. Though he pressed it against his body and covered it with his arms, it slipped from his fingers and bumped his chin. His teeth slammed together and he could have screamed. Resisting this temptation, he tried to fish for the book one last time. All shame would pass if he walked out with the Necronomicon, but he missed. Turning in on himself, he remained in place.

"I think, Tom, we need to talk about your proclivities after all."

The words reverberated in him. He had understood every syllable, but still a big question mark formed in his mind. What was he supposed to do? How could he wriggle out of it?

If anyone found out that he was harbouring necrophiliac thoughts, he would be screwed. All his efforts would have been for a futile purpose. But however much he wanted to deny that the corpse in the clearing had aroused him, he hardly thought it would impress the wizard. "Sir, there's no need," he pressed out.

"I think it is." Dumbledore waved it off and it worried Tom a little that the professor remained so outwardly indifferent. His facial expressions and gestures reflected neither triumph nor anticipation, but neither anger nor disenchantment. That Tom would try to break the agreement – they had both known that. "I'm a little surprised it took you so long to discover the cupboard."

If he was disappointed about it, Tom couldn't read it from his face. Dumbledore was on lockdown. Nothing of his emotional state leaked out. This cold-bloodedness, which he had observed in so few people, worried him. They strode back into the taproom. His reputation was entirely at stake and Dumbledore was a relentless competitor.

Tom looked around and noticed that the pub was beginning to fill up. Most of the tables, with two or three exceptions, were occupied. An animated buzz of voices filled the room. The lit candles gave a warm glow, illuminating the faces and hands of the guests. Tom's eyes roamed over the tables and heads, but he found no one who looked familiar.

They had almost reached the door when someone held them back: "Albus?"

His head whipped around. The landlady had reappeared and was looking at Dumbledore in amazement. Tom narrowed his eyes and looked at the woman more closely. The extraordinary familiar salutation had caused turmoil in his ears.

"I knew you'd finally want to drop in, but I wasn't expecting such an early date."

"Well, here I am." They shook hands.

"Why don't you sit down for a moment, I beg you."

Dumbledore hesitated, but then followed her gesture. "Just for a moment, we have something important to discuss amongst ourselves."

Their eyes visibly swept over his appearance. When they had examined him from head to toe, they jumped to Tom. The hood was of glorious little use, for there was a candle right in front of him. Reluctantly he took it off. Her eyebrows shot up, she frowned at the sight of him. She opened her mouth, her lips moved, but no sound came out.

"Pleased to meet you," Tom said, nodding his head curtly to keep up the charade.

"Likewise," the landlady replied tight-lipped and continued to eye him. Again and again her gaze wandered back and forth between the two guests, as if she couldn't make up her mind. Then she waved him off and began to wash a few glasses.

"Business seems to be good," Dumbledore spoke up. She nodded in confirmation.

"For a couple of years now, we've been seeing increasing numbers. You haven't been here in a while."

Tom watched every movement, trying to figure out what their relationship was.

"I can bring a firewhiskey," the landlady spoke to him. "You seem to be able to hold it."

He shook his head and thanked her artfully.

"Where is he?" turned Dumbledore to the landlady and Tom pricked up his ears. Him? Why didn't he give a name? Was it a secret? But she seemed to know who he meant.

"Outside, by the goats."

They both nodded.

"Do you know when he will come?"

The landlady shrugged. "He's usually back here around eight. I always tell him to get on his way home early, it's dark already, but you know him, he does what he wants."

Tom was sure they were using the cryptic descriptions to avoid supplying him with a name. After all, it seemed to be more than a loose acquaintance.

"I was so taken aback by your appearance that I flatly forgot to ask her name. I'm Sabrina, I don't know how much you've heard of me."

He had long since become accustomed to the astonishment and fear he regularly provoked. It was becoming increasingly clear that she thought he was someone he was not. Next to him, he heard Dumbledore sigh, who must have just come to a similar conclusion. "Tom Riddle," he replied, putting on his most charming smile.

It worked. Sabrina smiled back in confusion. He strained to remember where he might have heard of her, but it did not occur to him.

"It wasn't because of your looks," she assured him.

He didn't believe her. The twinkle in her eyes had spoken a different language. She really wasn't a good liar. "Oh... What was it then?" He tilted his head.

"Well..." she was embarrassed. "Your age. You seem young."

"Twenty-five."

Her mouth dropped open. Seeking help, she turned to Dumbledore. Deep furrows dug into her forehead. She was having a hard time processing the information. Was she stupid – or what did she think she was seeing here? "Are you colleagues?"

"Not really."

"Not yet," Tom interjected. "The job interview was abruptly interrupted, but surely we'll continue that, sir?" Once he had his property back in his hands, he still needed a reason to hide his Horcrux in the Room of Requirement.

Reluctantly, Dumbledore nodded. "Of course. Every candidate should be given the same chance."

Tom grinned to himself. Lost in thought, his fingers drew small circles in the wood of the counter.

"I was at the cupboard with the books I left with you, by the way," Dumbledore explained. "I'll be back for those soon."

"I'm glad to hear that. This secrecy isn't for me. Would you like to take them all now?"

"Soon," Dumbledore put her off. "Today I just got the one for him." He nodded to Tom. "For the interview, purely professional."

"That's a relief," Sabrina said. With practised hand movements she stacked the glasses in the cupboard.

Tom had to ask it, if only to see her discomfort. "What did you have in mind if you are relieved now?"

A blush came to her face. Magically drawn, her gaze drifted to the floor and she didn't manage to look at either of them. "Nothing..."

"We have other things to discuss, Tom," Dumbledore admonished him. "Sabrina, I'd like a little privacy."

Sabrina didn't bother to hide her confusion. "All right... – You'll get it. You know I'm happy to help you, just like with the wardrobe. Just please sort out the things that are between you and Aberforth. The fact that you don't talk to each other and send me back and forth between you, Albus, it's unbearable."

Tom grinned with pleasure. Sitting at the source, he sucked in every word and was glued to their lips, trying to remember and analyse everything. If it wasn't rude, he would have rubbed his hands together.

Sabrina walked away, leaving them to their own devices. Tom's grin died instantly.

With another unsaid spell, Dumbledore made sure they couldn't be overheard and glanced once briefly at his watch as if pressed for time. "Perhaps we should go to my office."

"Why? Because of Aberforth?" he laughed. "I'd like to meet the man you're running from sometime."

Dumbledore looked at him piercingly.

"You're not going to give me a sermon that goes on for ages now, are you?" he scoffed. "I haven't got forever. What is it about my proclivities that bothers you?" He wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible and then see how he could undo the conversation.

"That of all the books in the Forbidden Section, you had to pick the Necronomicon."

"Sir," he interrupted immediately. "It's for research, out of pure interest. Don't you sometimes feel the same way? This fascination with the dark? I'd heard so much about the book – I wanted to see for myself."

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes to slits. "I had been worried that you might harm others with your experimentation. Now I know you have it in for the entire magical world."

"That is a baseless insinuation, sir."

"We both know that the Necronomicon is said to be destructive. The spells in it are said to be so dark that if performed incorrectly – and sources of error abound – they can spell the end of the world."

"I have no intention of performing any spells from it," Tom lied. "Many have read it – you know that too – no one has ever performed a spell. It's just a fairy tale after all – made up by a madman. Reading it gives you a thrill. I'm not the first and I won't be the last to do it."

Dumbledore shook his head. "Why are you interested in myths? The Necronomicon in particular is a bad joke. You're lying to me, betraying me, all this – for a horror story?"

Tom snorted.

"If I notice that you ever attempt to perform even one necronomic spell, you will be a danger to the world, to your fellow human beings and ultimately to yourself. Rest assured that I will do everything I can to prevent it from coming to that end."

"It's a fairy tale. Most people don't even believe that the spells written there have any purpose – that they work at all. They are as valuable as the babble of a toddler. Those who believe in their efficacy are possessed by madness. Are you one of them?"

"I do not care for the nature of these spells," Dumbledore retorted sharply. "If you are seriously studying and trying them, then you want this world-destroying effect. I don't know what you're up to, Tom. You seem to be wasting your talent and the reasons are becoming... – more and more grotesque. One wondered when you took the job at Borgin & Burke's. If you descend any further down that dark path, I'll push you into the social outhouse, I promise you."

He held his breath. Dumbledore couldn't be serious. First the blackmail, now he was threatening him again.

"Necrophilia is not accepted in society. It should be impossible for you to gain recognition once this becomes public. It will stick to you like the smell of decay."

He bit his lips. "If they want to make allegations against me, frame me for crimes, make sure it's watertight," he hissed. "Otherwise it's character assassination. I will deny everything. Then it's word against word."

"Yours against mine, mark you."

"You have nothing on me, nothing but your imagination."

Dumbledore leaned over to him. With his lips close to his ear and his voice lowered menacingly, he spoke, "I noticed you looking at the decomposing corpse in the clearing." It was impressive to watch Dumbledore use the same manipulative gestures as himself. "At first you reacted in disgust, as is normal, but then... – your pupils dilated and you may not have noticed, but you licked your lips."

Tom swallowed. His hands began to shake uncontrollably as soon as he thought back to that image. His body was spinning out of control. Quivering, his heart was beating up to his throat. He didn't know how to calm himself, only that he had to force himself to do it.

"Perhaps you have never indulged this inclination before..." spoke Dumbledore slowly, "I would even believe you if you told me that you had just discovered it."

His resistance crumbled. No longer was he in control of his body's reactions. He could not guarantee anything. As quickly as possible he had to get out of the situation. "What do you want?"

"Stop practising dark magic," Dumbledore implored him. "If we initiate an Unbreakable Vow, I will leave you in peace. Otherwise, you will have to live with the fact that I will be watching your every move."

Tom swallowed. The price was huge, but... – the risk was just as high. He bit his lower lip. Dark magic was essential to his plans.

Nothing helped. Dumbledore had cornered him like a timid deer.

Even an Obliviate was not a safe solution. There would be too much he would have to erase from memory. Tom could not escape.

In an emergency, there would be only one way out.

The death of Dumbledore.

He would have to kill him.

Dumbledore had defeated Grindelwald. He was a gifted duelist and far superior to Tom in terms of experience. Therefore, he would have to act with cunning, but even that would be difficult. Lying to liars posed a problem. Manipulating manipulators a challenge. Assassinating such a person was nearly impossible. In his mind, he was already planning his course of action when they were abruptly interrupted.

"How dare you show up here!" someone scolded frantically. Someone? – A man about Dumbledore's age, tall, thin, with stringy hazel hair and a beard.

Dumbledore whirled around as if he had been struck by lightning. Tom had never seen him so startled in his life. "Aberforth!"

"Get out!" snarled Aberforth. "I don't want to see you!"

"Aberforth, give me the chance...," Dumbledore relented.

"I don't want to hear it! Go on, get out of my place."

Reluctantly, Dumbledore stood up.

Tom's jaw dropped. The professor was letting the stranger order him around. What did it take to gain such power? "We're in the middle of a conversation," Tom straddled him, even though the interruption suited him just fine. With a surreptitious wave of his wand, he levitated the Necronomicon from Dumbledore's pocket unnoticed.

"Who's the ugly duckling there?" barked Aberforth.

"You're not the epitome of beauty either," he said fearlessly. Someone who was so angry with the professor could really only become a friend of his.

"Shut up!"

"Tom... – let us go," Dumbledore urged. "He has the right of the house. Don't make a scene. That kind of attention won't sit well with you."

Rolling up his sleeves, Aberforth walked around the counter. Tom hurried to create a replica of the book and slide it back into Dumbledore's pocket. It was so easy – Dumbledore's eyes were only on the grim-faced Aberforth. Almost in sync, he and Dumbledore moved into battle stance, though Tom wasn't sure who the professor would hurl a spell at first.

Aberforth paused. "You want to fight?" he growled. His eyes darted back and forth between them. "Get the hell out of here, Albus, and take your disgusting lover with you." Raising his arm, he pointed towards the exit door.

Dumbledore followed the finger pointing, but clearly avoided turning his back on the other. Lover – what kind of absurd idea was that? Tom watched the proceedings with bright amazement. The professor surrendered – that he was not laughing.

Suddenly Aberforth leaned over the counter and grabbed him by the collar. "Don't stand there rooted to the spot smiling like you've won a flower pot. Are you stupid or what?"

Tom tugged, wriggled out of his grip and hurried to get outside the door. He knew too well which fights were worth fighting – there was nothing for him.

Outside, Dumbledore was waiting for him and together they walked down the streets of Hogsmeade. A silence had spread between them and no one dared to break it.

"Still send me the address. I'll be there tomorrow at nine o'clock sharp, dressed in Muggle clothes," Tom informed his companion. "Take my bag with you. I want it back."

The latter nodded wearily. "One more thing." He waved his wand and already he held the Necronomicon in his hand. "You can keep the cheap imitation."

Grumbling, Tom received the replica Dumbledore handed him and disappeared with a popping apparition noise.