Chapter 8

Once in the headmaster's office, Dumbledore opened one of the many cupboards and pulled out Tom's bag. "Here, I am a man of my promises."

Greedily Tom took it and picked up the charm that protected it from prying snoopers. Peering inside, he recognised the Diadem. Everything was in place. Relieved, he nodded to Dumbledore and said goodbye. Bitterness spread through him. Here he had already made three Horcruxes that guaranteed his immortality and yet he still had to worry about his Muggle origins.

A bright flash twitched through his gloomy thoughts as his gaze fell on the bookshelf. There, between Dumbledore's own publications and the history of Hogwarts, it stood: The Necronomicon. The black leather binding and the curved, fine silver letters were unmistakable.

He had to have it, but he couldn't possibly pull it off the shelf under Dumbledore's eyes. "Sir, do we still want to finish our interview?" he put in the room.

Dumbledore was surprised. "I thought it was a farce?"

"With respect, we have some unfinished business."

"The kiss? – Tom, you tried to push me, to prove to me that you had the upper hand, and it went wrong. I don't quarrel with myself the way you do under the surface. I won't be threatened like that."

Tom straightened his back. "I wonder if the Wizengamot will see it the same way. I'm looking at the bare facts – my knowledge of your homosexuality could plunge you into an abyss. You could lose all your prestige. Nor would you be allowed to continue as headmaster if the public knew about your proclivities."

Dumbledore leaned forward, put his palms together and spoke, "Then we agree to silence."

"To the grave."

"You didn't have to blackmail me like that, but yes, to the grave."

"You didn't do it any other way," Tom snorted. "Now an Unbreakable Vow?"

Dumbledore shook his head and stroked his beard. "With the weight of fact we hold against each other, there is no need."

Tom exhaled, but then nodded. It was truly enough. "Then let me tell you a little more about my qualifications as a teacher of the subject 'Defence Against the Dark Arts' and then we will part ways."

The professor smiled. "You know what's better than just lecturing?" He didn't give Tom time to answer. "A demonstration. Show me your Patronus charm."

He gritted his teeth. They both knew he had never been able to do that one. It was the only spell he had completely failed at, and the price you had to pay when you dabbled as extensively in dark magic as Tom did.

"Very well, sir." He stood up and straightened his bag, which hung over his shoulder so he could access it quickly. Then he got ready. Dumbledore wanted to taunt him, but it was the perfect opportunity.

Tom took a swing, said "Expecto Patronum," but didn't even try to think of a happy memory at first. Instead, with an unsaid spell, he blew into the attack. Grey swathes sprang from the tip of his wand. In seconds they had enveloped the whole office. Under the cover of the mist, Tom cast another unsaid Accio and the Necronomicon landed directly in his hand. He let it disappear into his pocket before putting on a disappointed mask as the swathes cleared.

Dumbledore waved his hand in the air. "That went mighty wrong, Tom."

He looked down at the ground, distressed. "I'm sorry, sir, let me try again."

Quickly the professor waved it off. "I well remember that special lesson, Tom, that's enough. You'll have to understand, though, that I can't hire a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher who hasn't even begun to master the Patronus Charm."

Although Tom had never had any real ambitions, he clenched his jaw bitterly. The hidden scorn hit him, yet he had emerged the secret victor in the argument. Bitterly, he replied, "It's a pity you see it that way. I could have taught the students a lot. Have a good day, sir."

"You too, Tom. I wish you well."

In the quickest possible way, Tom put distance between himself and Dumbledore before the latter could whistle him back and escort him out of the castle. Once in the Room of Requirement, he paused and looked proudly at his prize.

The diadem regained and the Necronomicon acquired.

What a magnificent achievement!

Still, his victory over Dumbledore had a bitter aftertaste.

oOo

The Room of Requirement was phenomenal. There were thousands of things piled up in the high arches that someone wanted to get rid of or hide. Piles of books piled up above Tom's head, seeming to snake along the walls like ivy. Everywhere in between was discarded furniture, like tables, chairs and cupboards. He could also see a mirror or two leaning. Next to a particularly high pile of books, almost reaching the ceiling, were two knights' armours, on the right and on the left. They looked as if they were guarding the pile, but a thick layer of dust on the grey metal suggested that they had not been moved for years.

Tom walked further into the room, passing pictures and picture frames, golden candlesticks and colourful china dishes. A chandelier, wetted with a second skin of wax, lay at his feet. Jewellery, in all kinds of colours, shapes and workmanship, was also to be found.

It was the perfect place. Ravenclaw's Diadem would not be noticed by anyone who was not directly searching for it. Even if someone was looking for it, it would be a needle in a haystack. Who would think to look there? No one, just him.

He found an ugly blond wig and a few steps away lay a faceless white bust. Put together, they made a confused distorted picture. The tiara in the blond hair would not catch the eye.

Tom looked at his work with extreme satisfaction. Then his gaze slid back into his pocket and lingered on the Necronomicon. Pride filled his chest.

For so long he had searched for it – and now it was finally his. How had he, as a student back then, been able to overlook the importance of this book? The contents were absurd, the ramblings of a madman, but hidden between the lines, in well-hidden hints, was the pinnacle of power. Dumbledore had warned him: in the wrong hands it could trigger the end of the world, or so the book was said to be. Tom was greedy to learn how.

With hasty grips, he took the book from his pocket. As his gaze fell on the metal case that lay beneath it, his hands began to tremble.

He was young, but his watch ticked loudly. Tom sighed – Horcruxes did not even save him from self-destruction, as he had had to learn bitterly.

But he would find a way out. Solemnly, he stroked the black cover. The rough leather rubbed against his fingertips and elicited a tingling sensation. It was the allure of dark magic.

Devoutly, he opened the book, letting his gaze fall on the first page.

But … – his eyes jumped to the second and then over to the next paginations.

They were empty. White … – innocent… – blank.

This could not be! This was not the original!

Tom flipped through the book. The pages creased and wrinkled under his coarse fingers, but he found no letters. They were all blank, except for the last page.

Tom,

I hope you enjoyed the brief reading. Please feel free to fill in your thoughts.

Did you really think I would leave it unprotected on the shelf after you showed interest in it?

Although you will not appreciate it, I must inform you that you have the original in your hands. I have rendered it harmless so that you can never use it for your monstrous experiments. I sincerely advise you to refrain from your irresponsible endeavours.

Since it is wishful thinking that our paths may no longer cross, I remain

with best regards

until our next meeting

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

With a cry of rage, he threw the desecrated Necronomicon from him. This time Dumbledore may have beaten him to it, but war was coming. The beginning was done, his social position strengthened, and Tom was hell-bent on winning.