Riddle's ethics
On the one hand, man is related to many species of animals in that he fights with his own kind. On the other hand, however, among the thousands of species that fight battles, he is the only one in whom these battles are destructive. The human species is the only species of mass murderers, and man is the only being who is not adapted to his own society.
- N. Tinbergen
I.
Tom Riddle was extremely reluctant to justify himself. He hated it, so he rarely bothered to do it for others. He didn't think much of philosophy. It was a rusty discipline for thinkers in ivory towers. Nothing it had to do with reality. Morals... ethical principles and values – you had to be able to afford them. Tom couldn't. When he turned over his coat pockets, nothing but lint fell out.
Since returning to Britain, his cash had been tight. They had stopped employing him at Borgin & Burke's because of his lack of classic beauty. Moreover, when he left six years ago now, he had taken away two artefacts that he had actually promised to the shopkeepers. He had been lucky with his reputation and had found a temporary warehouse job in the tea and spice trade, directly below his new apartment in Knockturn Alley. Like all the shops and people who made their home there, they had dirt on them and so – speaking with a wicked tongue – they were a good match.
"Mr Riddle, I am very pleased to see you again," he was greeted by Mr Lestrange as a house elf ushered him into the parlour.
"So am I, Mr Lestrange," Tom spoke, letting his eyes roam over those present.
The Lestrange family was fully gathered. Holding on to the householder's arm was the lady of the manor. Her two sons, Ryker and Ryland, had come home for the occasion. Out of the corner of his eye – trying not to make it too conspicuous – Tom scanned the surroundings. His gaze darted over the black marble of the floor and the white, high walls that were decorated with stucco. The furnishings betrayed the family's wealth at first glance. It was not flaunting, but presenting.
In the drawing room stood a gleaming grand piano, on whose black body Steinway & Sons had been engraved in gold scrollwork. Neither on the black of the piano nor on the few pieces of furniture could Tom detect even a speck of dust. The house elves mastered the cleaning spells with perfection, but it was almost sterilely clean and did not create a homely atmosphere.
The last rays of sunlight of the day fell through the windows. After dark, only many oil lanterns gave a lambent glow. A fire burned in the fireplace, keeping the room temperature pleasant. On the sideboard on the opposite wall were two huge candlesticks. The wax dripped down, dozens of candles flickered.
"Can you play?" asked Mrs Lestrange, adding quickly: "I ask because you look so interested in the piano."
Tom's eyes settled on her and though he hadn't meant to, she flinched. Fearful, as if he had threatened to beat her, she backed away a little. He knew this reaction well enough, but he was getting impatient. Those around him had to get used to his changed appearance at some point. Especially them, since they had run into each other before. "No, I've never had any lessons."
"Oh," she groaned. "That's a pity. Playing the piano has given me so much, I can't imagine life without it." The corners of her mouth twitched tentatively. It wasn't really a smile, more a sincere attempt.
He smiled back. His mask was in place. "Maybe you can give me lessons one day."
She nodded.
"Riddle!" He was pulled aside by Ryker Lestrange. Just at the last moment, the elder son of the Lestranges stopped and held out his hand to him – instead of promptly pulling him into a hug. They knew each other from Hogwarts – Ryker had been two years below Tom, but he had only dealt with him in context of his prefect and Head Boy activities. Ryker was too cheerful a nature for Tom, and even now he was grinning broadly from ear to ear. "Don't ensnare my mother like that."
Tom forced himself to smile mischievously. Ryker was delighted and asked, "We haven't heard from you in a while. Where have you been?"
"I've been travelling, but I've been back in the country for a few months," Tom told. "Who's we?"
Ryker shrugged. "The others, that's who. Many of the Slytherins we went to Hogwarts with. After all, when you're pureblooded you can't avoid the other families, every now and then we meet, sometimes intentionally. That's when we exchange information about what the others are doing, of course."
So when the Slytherins met, he was one of the others. It had come to that. He clenched his jaw to keep his anger from showing and forced himself to take a breath. He had to keep up the façade. After all, he was here to set it straight... – to fight for his place in society.
"And you know what?"
Tom grumbled.
"Every now and then someone gets the idea to ask about you, too. What you're up to, if anyone knows what's become of you." The Lestrange rejoiced as if he had performed a miracle.
"Who asked?"
"Well – there were quite a few. The ladies, all married now, remember you well. They gave up their daydreams, in which I'm sure you featured often, years ago. Fortunately, the pureblood families have remained intact and pure – as they should be. No future is spoiled."
Hissing, he drew in his breath. Had Ryker just said what he'd heard? Did he mean it? That was an insult. He growled, "You think I'm a bad match?"
Realising his mistake, Ryker bit his lips guiltily. "No, of course not," he stammered unconvincingly. "You were a good match, but you always seemed rather disinterested. Slughorn already saw you as Minister of Magic... eventually. Then there were all your friends, the ones you played knights with."
"Knight?" he repeated. Had the Lestrange just said 'play' in that reference, too? He swallowed. Once again it was confirmed: he needed to polish his image. "Did Abraxas say something?" He needed to know. Ever since the Malfoy had shown him the door, all contact between them had broken off.
Ryker shook his head. "Why would he? Did something happen?"
Tom didn't have to bother with a lie, because at that moment Mr Lestrange approached them and asked him to take a seat. There were six chairs at the circular table, but only five occupied. One guest was still missing.
"Dumbledore is running late. Something important has come up for him," the head of the house informed him. "But that should not diminish our pleasure. Since it shouldn't take long, we'll wait to eat if it's convenient."
II.
The professor was truly a notable member of magical society. He was where Tom wanted to be – at the top. He was not only respected, but downright admired for his skills and his victory over Grindelwald. Great esteem was a heady feeling – it had been far too long since anyone had met Tom in this way.
Mr and Mrs Lestrange took their usual seats and Mr Lestrange assigned Tom the chair next to his eldest son. From Tom's point of view, they sat in following order: first Ryker, then Ryland, the younger son, then the mother and finally the father. To his left, however, a seat remained empty. Before he sat down, he plucked his bag from his shoulder and hung it over the chair. He took it with him almost everywhere, including to work, which is why it gave off a pleasant scent of sage and cardamom.
"What do you have with you?" asked Ryker curiously, and everyone looked at Tom. It was rare for a guest to bring anything. His physical well-being was taken care of and he could get anything else if he asked for it. They were magicians, the satisfaction of all desires was only a spell away. The host was already accused of incompetence if one came to the house with additional equipment.
"I thought you'd never ask," Tom turned to everyone. He took out a journal in which he had neatly pasted newspaper articles. Over the past weeks and days he had picked them out, studied them, cut them out – always careful to give the source and the date. He had researched as he had not done for a long time, on a subject that was unusual for wizards – even for wizards like him.
Mr Lestrange noticed immediately that something was outlandish. "Are these...?" He faltered. "The pictures don't move. They're articles from Muggle newspapers!"
Tom could only grin smugly at the astonishment in which the company was plunged. They thought they were superior – yet they knew so little about Muggles that they couldn't even really say why. He on the other hand – he had an exact idea.
Before he could start to explain, the general attention slipped away from him.
A house elf had stepped into the parlour and announced the last guest. Dumbledore had condescended to finally appear as well.
Grimly, Tom flipped the journal shut again as Mr Lestrange jumped up to greet the professor.
The eyes of everyone were on the newcomer. Hands were shaken, the usual pleasantries exchanged. Dumbledore was remarkably friendly with everyone, especially with Ryland, who was a quiet seventeen-year-old in the final year and whom he had rescued a few weeks ago. He worked his way all around the table, asking everyone how they were and starting a short chat. Mr Lestrange was asked about his job at the ministry. The tablecloth, designed by Mrs Lestrange herself, was complimented. Ryker was congratulated on his engagement and Ryland was asked about his state of preparation for the final exams. As he chatted with one of the Lestrange's, everyone listened intently to the conversation. Finally, when Dumbledore had got to his seat, he began to speak to Tom.
"Tom, I see you've brought yourself some reading," he said with a frown.
Mr Lestrange raised an eyebrow. Addressing a former pupil by his first name was not customary, but a sign of a special relationship of trust.
Inwardly Tom growled, but there was nothing he could do about the false appearance.
The scepticism had not escaped Dumbledore either, but he seemed completely unimpressed. "Or are you going to lecture us?"
The table fellowship laughed and Tom also joined in cautiously. "Not at all. I have come across an interesting topic on which I would like to learn other perspectives."
Dumbledore sat down, but did not take his eyes off him. At the word 'interesting' he wrinkled his nose, as if concluding that it must be a gruesome subject.
"It is your opinion in particular that would interest me, sir," Tom continued.
The professor weighed his head gingerly, as if he couldn't quite believe it.
Tom took a deep breath and then opened the first page again. Emblazoned on it was a newspaper article, from a Muggle edition, as Mr Lestrange had already correctly recognised. The date was a Saturday, a fortnight ago. On that day, of all days, this paper had accidentally fallen into his hands while he had been running special errands in Muggle London. It had grabbed him and never let go since. Devoutly, he stroked his hand over the clipping. Some of the journal's pages had been crumpled in transit and the corners were also worn, for he had bought a second-hand copy.
The grey illustration showed a two-storey brick building. The view of it was framed by an iron gate that stood far in the foreground. On it, in capital letters, was the saying, figuratively shouting: Arbeit macht frei.
Dumbledore glanced at the grey pages, deep furrows dug into his forehead. He stretched his head forward and slid closer to Tom. From a short distance he looked at it more closely and finally took the journal out of Tom's hand. Instead of looking at it further, he eyed his former pupil. "I see," he murmured.
Mr. Lestrange became uneasy. "I don't mean to be rude, but what do you understand?"
Without asking the owner, Dumbledore handed over the journal. "Look at it for yourself first," he advised and then turned back to Tom, "This is what keeps you awake at night?"
Now it was his turn to frown. How did the professor come up with such a question? "Could be..." He had indeed not slept much the last few nights.
"You look tired, Tom," Dumbledore now declared. "Like you haven't slept a wink in the last few nights."
Slowly Tom nodded. "The subject hasn't let me go..." With a fixed gaze he thought back. It was his path to power. It would win him the attention and trust of the pureblood families.
Dumbledore sighed, "It gets better with time. Once you're older… you learn to deal with it... – to endure the horror of humanity. "
Before Tom could wonder what he meant by that, the community was interrupted by a house-elf. He was visibly uncomfortable coming into the parlour, but something important must have made him do so. No sooner had he appeared than he humbly bowed his head, hands clasped in front of his body. "Master."
Mr Lestrange grumbled a little. "We wished no disturbance, Fiddy, had I not made myself clear?"
The house elf's head sank a little lower still. He almost collided with his knees. "Yes you did, Master," he or she chirped, you couldn't tell by the pitch of their voices. "But a Mr Dolohov is at the door."
The Lestrange sons paused their quiet conversation about a girl. Ryland jumped to his feet. Ryker, too, suddenly sat bolt upright. A beaming smile spread across his face. His younger brother, on the other hand, was already prancing from one foot to the other. "I'm going, father, I'm going already. I'll take care of Antonin," he shouted with joy, hopping like a bouncy ball towards the hallway.
"Stop!" intervened Mr Lestrange gruffly. Ryland slammed to the ground – his father was not amused. It was an inopportune time for visitors.
"Raedwulf..." whispered Mrs Lestrange to her husband. "Don't be so hard on him, he's a good boy..."
Mr Lestrange puffed and turned back to the house-elf, not responding to his wife and son. "What does he want?"
"To talk," the house-elf replied regretfully, as if it was his fault that Antonin was on the doorstep unannounced. "I suppose he has a request and it couldn't wait until tomorrow."
Grumbling, the landlord stood up. "If you'll excuse me for a moment." With a flick of his wrist, his sons followed him and they left the parlour.
Mrs Lestrange cleared her throat and began to apologise a thousand times. "Antonin Dolohov, he is a strange young man – he always has been." She smiled tentatively. "But my sons have taken a fancy to him – both of them, and they usually disagree so much."
Tom rubbed his chin. "Antonin Dolohov... – He wasn't in the same year with Ryker or Ryland."
She shook her head. "I don't think so."
"He should be twenty years old now, if I'm not mistaken," Dumbledore interjected. Of course, as Headmaster, he knew such things.
"Then they definitely weren't. Ryker is twenty-five and Ryland is a tender seventeen," the mother reflected. "Interesting that despite the age difference they are both friends with him. Have you," she didn't look at Tom, she rather glanced at his chest, "been on the same grade as Antonin? You know him, don't you?"
Tom tried to put out a smile. "For two years we attended Hogwarts together. When I graduated, he was just in his second year."
Dumbledore interjected, "But I remember seeing you together regularly?"
"I practised English with him. He had only come to Britain six months before he started school. In return, he taught me a little Russian."
"Strange... – A strange decision, it sounds like a hasty move," she mused.
Tom shrugged his shoulders. "He had no other option. His family had perished in the Чистки."
"Chist-how?"
"Chistki," Tom repeated. "The Stalin purges."
"Oh!" Mrs Lestrange slapped her hand over her mouth. "The poor boy..."
III.
"Would you do me a favour and check on dinner?" asked Dumbledore. "I really don't want to push, but a busy day with little time for meals is behind me."
"Of course, I was already wondering what was taking so long, too," she assured him, hurriedly making her way to the kitchen. "But I thought, good things come to those who wait. The house elves are actually very reliable, I'll have a look anyway."
Already she was gone and Dumbledore had got his way. He had no trouble fooling the gullible woman, but Tom had seen through his charade immediately. Tom knew that Dumbledore would now go on a direct confrontation course. Inwardly, he braced himself for the headwind. There was nothing the professor could have done to prevent him from carrying out his plan.
With a frown, Dumbledore reached for the journal that Mr. Lestrange had left open in his seat. Meaningfully, he slid it across the table, turned it towards Tom and tapped on the open page. No words were needed. Even so, Tom saw the storm coming. He had knowingly and willingly sailed right into it. Undeterred, he tightened his shoulders and withstood Dumbledore's condemnation. It had never been his intention to drag Dumbledore along. But the opportunity for dinner would not come often. Even though he could have gratefully done without the professor's presence, he had not. You had to be able to afford morals – Tom was as poor as a church mouse.
He did not lower his head to his journal, because he knew the pictures, having put it on himself.
Dumbledore snorted. "I think you should take another look at the article," he asked lurkingly, "Do me the favour, please."
Tom did not move.
He tapped on the illustration. Three times with an outstretched finger. "Look at it again. Describe it to me."
What was Dumbledore getting at? No – that was not the question. Was he really getting at what Tom feared? It would have been rotten of him. It would no longer have anything to do with cunning or the better argument. It would only be brutalised.
"Now, go on," the professor cheered him on. "After all, when you made it an issue, you weren't so hesitant either." Dumbledore was genuinely angry. A state in which he was rarely seen.
The professor would get what he wanted – then he would see that he did not want it. Tom had little to no scruples, so in the long term, he would inevitably emerge victorious. Feeling ill-tempered, he pulled the journal onto his lap and looked down. His eyes fixed on the stark newspaper photograph – "It's a mountain, formed of corpses." People lay piled on top of each other, their emaciated arms and legs stretched sleepily away from them. Tom groaned and turned the page. A gigantic mountain of shoes could be seen on the next page.
Tom swallowed. Very slowly, he turned his head to Dumbledore and looked him in the eye. He tried to hide his trembling as best he could – he wanted to appear ice-cold – but it was in vain. The trembling of his hands – a thin blanket separated his calm exterior from his seething interior. It threatened to tear.
When you gaze long into an abyss…
"Does the sight excite you?" asked Dumbledore gruffly.
He winced. "No..." Gasping, he added, "Of course not!" Running out of breath, he could hardly give emphasis to the exclamation. Angrily, he pressed the book against his legs.
"Then what do you expect to get out of it?"
"I don't owe you any account," Tom hissed back.
"You want to exploit this tragedy for your own ends, how can you?" Dumbledore's eyes widened in horror.
Tom bit his lower lips. He was walking on a knife's edge. One whiff and he was in danger of falling.
The abyss also gazes into you...
"I'm just concerned. The Muggle war had been eclipsed by Grindelwald's misdeeds," Tom hastened to explain. He hoped it would disguise his true intentions, even if he didn't try so hard to maintain the illusion with Dumbledore. "At first, I thought it would go away. But now seven years have passed and still the extent of these atrocities has not penetrated magical society." It wasn't completely unheard of, the magical society was blind to the cruelties of Muggles. More than that, ignorant. One felt superior in all to Muggles, so that many thought they would never be able to find themselves in such a victim role.
"Therefore, you want to take this into your own hands?" As expected, Dumbledore was less than convinced. "I am rarely of the opinion that ignorance is desirable – but sometimes it is a blessing."
"I must ask you! Ignorance is always a weakness," Tom countered. "One that regularly leads to more harm! The cruelties of Muggles must be known, they must be discussed. Only then, if necessary, can precautions be taken."
Countless wrinkles formed on Dumbledore's forehead. "Are you telling me that Muggles can be dangerous to wizards in their entirety?"
"Yes, sir, that's exactly my point," Tom said, handing him the journal. "Why don't you take a look?"
The professor took it in his hands, but let it snap shut instantly. "I don't understand what you hope to achieve by scaring the Lestrange away from Muggles." He faltered. "Unless... – you want to take away their fear then? Do you want to create a problem and then boast about the solution?"
"I'm not creating anything," Tom hissed, pointing at the journal. "The danger is real. Even if you close your eyes, it will not go away."
"Your – hopefully good – intentions in all honour, Tom, don't paint a one-sided picture with this, I warn you! Don't stir up fear of your fellow Muggles, you grew up with them, you know their many facets. Merlin – you know that they cannot be reduced to these cruelties. That is not something that distinguishes them from us. But the purebloods in particular, in their self-imposed isolation, have already developed enough fear of contact. The knowledge could be devastating to their psyche. Tom, I don't see how that would improve your social status. What do you gain from wizards banding together against Muggles, again? Man fears nothing more than the unknown and his neighbour – the Muggles combine both categories. Coupled with a radical world view, it can be disastrous." Dumbledore watched him with a shudder. "Why do you want to fuel the pureblood ideology, that also does you wrong? I'm long past the point where I want to accuse you of lack of understanding."
"I'm glad to see, sir, that you do realise that after all," Tom interrupted him.
Dumbledore refused to be confused. "It is madness! You are beyond good and evil!"
Panting, Tom sat back. "You can rant all you like, you can't change reality! It's up to everyone themselves whether they want to close their eyes. With respect, sir, you cannot forbid me to speak."
The professor visibly bit the inside of his cheeks. He lapsed into a sombre silence, his eyes fixed on his former student. "You're right," he spoke softly, but clearly.
Triumphantly, Tom smiled. Victory against Dumbledore was exhilarating.
"But the better argument still wins," Dumbledore concluded. He turned away from Tom for good and folded his hands on the table.
IV.
At that moment the door opened. The male Lestranges accompanied by Antonin entered. The Russian turned his head a few times, surveying the room. His eyes gleamed at the sight of Dumbledore, but narrowed when he looked at Tom. From head to toe he was being scrutinised.
Meanwhile, Mr Lestrange sat down again. "I hope you both don't mind if we add a third guest to our circle. Mr Dolohov is a decidedly close friend of my two sons and he will be staying here for the moment, due to a personal emergency."
The three boys smiled. While the Lestranges' looked mischievous, Antonin's lips twisted into a diabolical grin. As if on a throne, he took a seat on a conjured chair between the brothers.
"Professor," he greeted Dumbledore with a nod of his head. The Russian, despite his young age, had a deep baritone and piercing eyes, that seemed to have seen much, like those of an old man. "It is good to see you again. I hope I can be an asset to your dinner conversations," he spoke in a heavy accent. Tom could not remember it beeing so distinct in his childhood.
Again Antonin's eyes narrowed to tight slits, as if he were watching an exotic animal in the zoo. "Antonin Dolohov, pleased to meet you and you are?"
Grinning smugly, he replied, "Tom Riddle, likewise."
A manic twinkle. Eyes widened. A smile from ear to ear. "Tom! My old friend!" he exclaimed. "You've changed quite a bit, where's that beautiful shell of yours gone? We haven't seen each other for a long time, years have passed by now."
"Fortunately England is quite small," Dumbledore interjected with interest. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom could see that the professor's attention was on them, even as Mr Lestrange tried to engage him in conversation.
Antonin laughed. "I haven't been here much in the last few years, so we won't have crossed paths unknowingly."
Tom shook his head. "Then it's no wonder – because neither have I."
"You haven't?"
"No. I've been travelling too."
Antonin marvelled. It sent a shiver down Tom's spine. "You must tell me about your travels. I'm sure I have some things to tell you, too."
"Mr Dumbledore, now that you have taken over as Headmaster, do you have enough time for your research?" asked Mr. Lestrange.
Dumbledore lost himself in airs and graces about his work. For the first time that evening, Tom did not feel his gaze prick the back of his neck. The steady tension between his shoulders – that he felt in the old man's presence – began to ease. With Dumbledore tied up, he could set about fulfilling his plan of action. There were three young men to ensnare. The matrix for an extensive sense of threat could be created, so contagious it was also capable of spreading to the Lestrange parents.
Before he could speak, Antonin turned to him, "You – I may still call you by your first name?" A rather late request, as he had already done so, but Tom nodded. Satisfied, the Russian continued: "I thought it would do me good to return to my homeland. To find old friends, visit familiar places." He shrugged his shoulders. Even though the gesture portrayed helplessness, Antonin did not look helpless at all. "But so much has changed in the meantime. I hardly recognised it. My parents' house is now ramshackle – not a roof you'd want to live under for too long. And society," he wrinkled his nose. "Don't even get me started on that... Where have your travels taken you?"
"Actually, I also spent some time in the Soviet Union," he told him and Antonin tilted his head. "But I had also been to Poland and Albania."
Antonin grinned. "Strange destinations."
Mrs Lestrange came in and announced that dinner would be served immediately. A little later – the conversation had not yet recovered from the interruption – the house elves brought the dish: shoulder of lamb with garlic and green beans. With a snap of the fingers, the table was set. Tom gulped and nibbled at his collar as plates and cutlery also appeared before him. "I hope you don't expect me to eat anything. I told you in writing that I had to stick to a strict diet, didn't I?"
All, expect Dumbledore, raised their eyebrows.
"With your stature?" the host finally asked. He looked sceptically at Tom wiry figure.
"For medical reasons, not aesthetic."
With a patronising gesture, he waved it off and the meal began. Prompted, Dumbledore told more about his research on dragon's blood. He enumerated countless problems that had emerged during his experiments and also explained possible solutions. An interesting topic, but the group only listened with half an ear and poked at their food. Dumbledore himself also seemed to be elsewhere with his thoughts. His remarks became more halting, his way of speaking slower. His voice, that had previously spoken euphorically about his work, sounded depressed. Finally he fell silent.
It took ten minutes before someone spoke up. Mr Lestrange put the cutlery aside and asked Tom for the journal. Wordlessly, but inwardly jubilant, he pulled it out of his bag and slid it over. With a sombre expression, Mr Lestrange opened the book, looked at the pictures and began to read the newspaper articles. The pages rustled and when he looked up he had a print of his hand on his cheek.
"How is it that we know so little about this?" he asked in a toneless voice.
Ryland peered over to see what was bothering him. Silently, Mr Lestrange gave the book over to his son, who leafed through it with his brother and Antonin. With the journal lying in the middle, the three of them had slid close together and were almost sitting on Antonin's lap. Horror was reflected in their faces, but they did not dare to interrupt their father.
"It has already been seven years. Why was it barely reported in the Daily Prophet?" the Head of House asked again. "I can still remember a side note, but it looked like it didn't have such a terrible scale. It gave a boring impression, to be honest."
Both Dumbledore and Tom set to reply, but Tom was quicker. "The war against Grindelwald had overshadowed it. The magical world is still so caught up with rebuilding that it doesn't have an eye for what's going on in the Muggle world."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dumbledore nod in confirmation. After a quick glance at the professor, Mr Lestrange was content with that answer, but then it burst out of him again. "Terrible, all those dead people... – Man is capable of many things, but I would never have thought such cruelty possible."
"Who would have?" murmured Antonin gloomily.
"I hate to say it," Tom lied, it gave him a gloating pleasure, but he was clever and hid it well, "but I hope you understand why I brought it. It is a subject that is hardly on the wizarding agenda, yet has a tremendously urgency."
Mr Lestrange seemed to understand. "You did well to bring it up, though I'm sure it won't have been easy for you."
Vehemently, Tom nodded. "I've had sleepless nights over it."
A scowl from Dumbledore met him. "Now the question is, what do we make of this new knowledge, isn't it, Tom?"
"In my opinion, it is our duty to prevent a repetition of these atrocities." Tom leaned far forward on the table and looked Mr Lestrange straight in the eye. "You agree, don't you, or am I mistaken?"
"Of course," the latter hurried to say.
Dumbledore clicked his tongue impatiently. "And where do you get that it will happen again?"
Tom snorted. "It's already happened once. How do you know it won't happen again?"
"That something won't happen is hard to prove," the professor countered.
"With respect, sir, I also have no crystal ball. Even if I had one, I doubt it would help us."
"So we have to assume it can happen again?" summed up Mr Lestrange.
The corners of Tom's mouth twitched, it was what he wanted to hear. In the background Ryland had thrown the book shut in horror. His face, and his brother's too, were as pale as bedsheets. Only Antonin did not seem disturbed by the sighting of the collected newspaper articles. Concentrating with interest, he fished the journal out of his friend's trembling hands and began to leaf through it again.
"If we assume that – yes, what are we going to do about it? We can't put the Muggles under general suspicion," Dumbledore started the second attempt to steer the conversation in his direction.
"Why not, sir, it's for security purposes," Tom countered. "It is not as if drastic measures have to be taken on the lone basis of general suspicion."
"Then what is the use of general suspicion?"
"For lighter measures." Tom shrugged his shoulders. He didn't understand the professor's problem. "General suspicion – that's such a terrible word for such a self-evident thing."
"Enlighten me." Dumbledore looked at him promptingly. "What do you mean by general suspicion?"
"I mean that we need to rethink our basic attitude towards Muggles. Wizards and non-wizards live in two different worlds, but the separation must be removed. After all, we see what happens when Muggles are allowed to run unchecked... – We must intervene and prevent such massacres early on. Otherwise, they can behave like animals. Unthinkable if their aggression should one day turn against wizards."
"They won't, as long as they don't know about us!" hurriedly interjected Mr Lestrange. "Even if I don't like having to live in hiding. With these pictures, I remember why I do."
His sons nodded.
Antonin's eyebrow went up; he obviously saw it differently. "As if we are as secret as we think we are..."
"What do you mean?" asked Mr Lestrange.
Antonin leaned forward, tapping the table with each syllable. "The Mudbloods."
Outspokenly, it stood like a wall between them.
"Surely, gentlemen, you will not have succumbed to your prejudice against Muggleborns like that?" Dumbledore's voice was still calm, but Tom suspected it was simmering behind his brow. If this was a contest for the better argument, then he was on the path to triumph. There was general agreement on what he was saying. The newspaper articles about systematic genocide scared the wizards, he didn't have to lift a little finger himself.
"Well, Mr. Dumbledore, you must say that they are a danger to secrecy. With each child comes two parents and four grandparents and, if necessary, siblings. Muggle-borns don't do well in magical society, look at the suicide rates, they are thrust into a totally alien world. All their lives they struggle to fit in," Mr Lestrange elaborated and Tom had to suppress a snide snort. "And there I haven't even begun to talk about the purification of blood, which is the only means of ensuring the magical empowerment of society."
"Mr Lestrange, how many Muggle st...," Dumbledore began to argue against this, but the Head of House had talked himself into a frenzy.
He interrupted the professor, "And now this!"
Theatrically, he pointed to Journal, which Antonin was clutching tightly.
"To remain idle with such knowledge is tantamount to a crime!" scolded Mr Lestrange.
Dumbledore bit his lips and looked annoyed. Secretly, the sight pleased Tom. He had done it. – This was his victory.
"Do you want to repeat Grindelwald's mistakes?" asked Dumbledore. "Do you want to usher in the next reign of terror?"
Shocked, Lestrange shook his head. "Surely, it must be possible without one! Grindelwald was a power-hungry tyrant, but it must go without."
"It can never go without..." implored Dumbledore. "Such radical ideas, as you want to implement, do not work without a leader cult. You think in hierarchies, then you too will have to fit into one."
Mr Lestrange's stiff posture sagged. He grabbed his head, ran it through his hair less than gallantly. "And what do you propose?"
"Tolerance," said the professor soberly. "Go among Muggles first, live among them for a while. When you've done that, we can talk about subjugating Muggles for their own benefit. If you want to decide what's best for someone, you should know them well, at least. Not to mention if you want to rule over an entire population."
Silence spread. To Tom's horror, the Lestranges actually looked as if they were considering the possibility. "It's for our interest, for our own benefit," Lestrange murmured. "I'm quite indifferent to Muggles in that regard, as long as they don't pose a threat to the magical world. And they do, you can spin that any way you like." He took a deep breath. "But on the other hand, I don't want another Grindelwald. No reign of terror, no war, not among wizards and not with Muggles, for that matter."
Tom puffed in exasperation as the tide turned and to regain the upper hand, he began to mock. All eyes turned to him.
"Tom, would you like to give us your opinion as well?", Dumbledore challenged him.
He snorted. Even now he was being addressed by his first name. "Gladly, sir," he said formally. "I am of the opinion that we have enough knowledge. Muggles may be different from wizards – their mentality may be different –, but ultimately they are not a different species. They are people without magic, nothing more. There's nothing to study, there's nothing to learn." With this, he believed he had reduced Dumbledore's argument to absurdity.
Dumbledore interrupted him. "So systematic genocide is also possible by wizards?"
He bit his lip, but he had to say it. "It is in the nature of man. Man is cruel, he is another man's wolf."
The professor nodded in satisfaction and Tom clenched his hands into fists.
"True enough!" interjected Mr Lestrange. "Muggles or wizards... one must be careful not to brutalise society. Grindelwald may have had goals I supported, but he tried to achieve them through violence. Violence should never be the means of choice. I lost my brother, Rodolphus, and my nephew, Rabastan, in the war against Grindelwald. So my thoroughly negative view of humanity is justified."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Tom hastened to smooth the waters. "But don't you see that with the Muggles a disaster is on the way? With their unpredictable cruelty, they pose a danger to the magical world that must be controlled."
Mr Lestrange's gaze darkened. "Muggles will hardly allow themselves to be controlled by us voluntarily."
"There will be opposition," Tom conceded. "But those will fall silent if..."
He was interrupted. Lestrange interjected, "The end does not justify the means."
Tom bit his lip. "Would you rather wait and see what happens?"
They stared grimly at each other. Dumbledore cleared his throat, drawing attention back to himself.
"How can humans be cruel, Tom?" asked Dumbledore with a slight, inappropriate smirk. "Can you tell me? Wizards or Muggles... – how could something like Auschwitz happen? To prevent a recurrence, you have to want to explore the reasons."
Tom growled. "What are you asking me? You're the polymath!"
Horrified looks met him. His emotional outburst seemed to have unsettle the Lestrange family. Dumbledore, on the other hand, was amused and Antonin also looked well entertained.
"For having so much to say about the subjugation of Muggles, and for bringing the subject to the table in the first place, you are now rather scurrying about, Tom," Dumbledore reprimanded him.
Mr Lestrange nodded. "You want to fight the evil of Muggles – Then please explain where you think it comes from."
"And don't fob us off with nature or that man is just an animal," Dumbledore warned. "That is beneath you."
V.
He clenched his jaw and thought frantically. Now he needed an explanation. Hectically he pondered back and forth, but in his mind the thoughts raced to nothing.
"It's called philosophy," Dumbledore joked, and Tom's fingernails began to dig into the heel of his hand.
Never he had been so clueless. He had never asked himself this question before, so he had not put any approach to the test yet. Why did people do evil? The answer wasn't obvious, and Dumbledore didn't seem to expect a concrete answer either, so studying the others got him nowhere. He had to find a solution himself.
What was the commonest worst thing a human could do?
Kill another. That was the generally accepted answer.
Why had he murdered?
Images of corpses slid before his inner eye. Flies. Maggots. Blood. Empty eyes staring at him. Mouths widened in horror, lips contorted into a final scream. Tom took a deep breath. The corners of his mouth twitched wildly.
He had enjoyed it.
Decay. Brutalisation. Dehumanisation. Death.
Pain. Agony. Death.
Devastation. Death.
Euphoria when he lived and the other died.
It triggered a rush he found hard to describe. The feeling of victory then shot through his veins, made him drunk and lifted him to the sky.
He closed his eyes and sighed.
Impossibly, he could turn his innermost self inside out. The mask had to sit ironclad over his seething mind.
"Well, sir, you've asked a really tricky question there," Tom began to speak. "Because... – how would I know? I can only make assumptions about what a torturer or murderer feels and thinks. Just as you can make counter-assumptions and then we sit here like a dying duck in a thunderstorm and yet have gained nothing."
Ryker hung on his lips and subconsciously nodded at each of Tom's words. "Dying duck in a thunderstorm?"
Tom swallowed and lied: "It's an old saying. I picked it up while reading the other day." Actually, it came from the Muggle world.
The Head of House nodded in satisfaction.
Dumbledore ran a thoughtful hand through his beard. "Well, Tom. Maybe we would agree for once, so it wouldn't be word against word. Also, I asked you directly for your opinion. I actually thought that implied that there was a wide range of possible views."
Grumbling, Tom leaned back. He had not yet been able to weasel away. If he didn't deliver soon, his cluelessness would be obvious. The sons of Lestrange were already looking a little strange. Antonin, too, had raised an eyebrow in interest, so one could assume he was listening more than reading. As if in confirmation, the Russian put the journal down and smiled slightly at him. There was something inviting in it.
Tom cleared his throat and started again. "To be honest, it's a question I've never tackled before. I have always assumed human cruelty to be natural, an innate drive, until now." He looked at Dumbledore, who eyed him with a hardened expression. "But that's exactly what you didn't want to hear. The only other possibility is that cruelty is instilled in man by society, and from that I conclude that you want to hear something about it."
The professor nodded. "If you can say something about it? After all, you have already admitted that you have never dealt with it."
"We lived through a war, grew up in one," Ryker stated hesitantly. "Did you really never wonder then what could have corrupted Grindelwald and his followers?"
"They were intelligent, well-off, civilised men – that they killed all those people out of some innate impulse is hard to imagine," Mr Lestrange also concluded. His voice sounded cutting and Tom was sure the words were addressed to him as a rebuke.
"Well, any cruelty must arise from a lack of compassion, must it not? Otherwise man would not be able to torture at all, because he would feel the pain of his victim as well," Tom began to speak.
"More of a non-existence than a lack," Dumbledore hooked in and Tom gave him a scowl. Now he had to dance to the old man's tune if he wanted to impress Mr Lestrange.
"And on top of that, there's an addiction to control on the part of the perpetrator." Tom's jaw clenched at 'addiction'. 'Addiction' sounded like bargaining from a position of weakness. But that couldn't be, because after all, one was the tormentor and not the sufferer.
"What does acting cruelly have to do with an addiction to control?" asked Mr Lestrange. "I would rather have said cruel people enjoy the suffering of others."
"Quite," Tom remarked, noticing the odd tone, and rephrased, "I think so too, but I keep thinking about what exactly one might enjoy. That's where I say, the control one has over the victim. That gain in control could be very pleasurable."
The others seemed to have their toenails curled up. Tom smirked to himself. They were all so squeamish. He, on the other hand... – His gaze fell on Dumbledore, who looked completely relaxed. A low growl escaped his throat.
"How can that be?" breathed Ryland. It was so quiet that almost no one heard it and he was startled when all heads turned to him.
"Such a person can only relax if he has his fellow human beings under complete control. In situations that are uncontrollable for him, he is irritated to the extreme. It is a reaction out of fear – the cruellest are sometimes the most fearful people," Dumbledore lectured.
"Hmm," Mr Lestrange made thoughtfully, unsure if he could agree.
In any case, Tom couldn't. The torment of the others excited him, but where should fear come from? He did not feel it. "I don't know," he said firmly. "Your supposition is too surreal for me, sir. To inflict suffering on others, one must not be squeamish. How would a trembler manage that?"
Dumbledore shrugged. "Even in a faltering way, one can hurt another person. Just because you do it with a faltering hand doesn't make you inflict any less pain."
"How quickly a knife bores into the body doesn't matter. What matters is how deep it cuts through the flesh," Antonin also passionately straddled.
"But that no longer fits the definition of cruelty. One who hesitates hesitates out of compassion, and that is not present in cruelty," Tom paused. "Maybe we should agree on a definition first."
"Perhaps what's cruel and what's not is determined more by the motive of the perpetrator," Antonin pondered further. "An act is cruel, after all, if it happens without meaning."
"I don't think that's generally accepted," Dumbledore said. "I think there can be cruelty with meaning. It will make sense in the mind of the performer."
Antonin growled.
"But then it only makes sense to that person, and not to outsiders or even the rest of society," Mr Lestrange interjected.
Dumbledore leaned forward and clasped his hands. With special emphasis he spoke, "I think the motive can always be reduced to one of pleasure. Cruelty is torturing for the sake of torturing. And what the person thinks... – As Tom said, we can only guess."
"For that, we'd have to ask someone who feels that way. Grindelwald, for example, we'd have to ask if we wanted to understand his messed-up psyche," Ryker said.
"That won't help. At worst, he'll infect you with his madness," Dumbledore replied firmly. "You'd have to do a lot more than that to stand a chance."
Tom Riddle had emerged successful. They argued with each other and he was fine. He couldn't make himself shine, but at least this way it was not possible to scare the Lestrange away.
"But why did the Nazis kill all those Jews?" asked Antonin. Tensely he put his fingertips together.
"Out of hatred," Dumbledore replied after a brief pause for thought.
Thoughtfully, all parties looked at their plates. No one was really able to make sense of it. An awkward silence ensued, in which only the clattering of forks could be heard.
Tom slid back and forth on his chair. Should he dare? When all the others were sheepishly silent and did not give a passable answer... – Yet, it was obvious. It was a chance to steer the conversation out of these philosophically tinged waters again. He had to open his mouth. "They killed to shape their people according to their ideas," Tom interjected. "They wanted it to be a homogeneous mass."
Instantly everyone paused in their movements. Mr. Lestrange's mouth was open and Ryker also looked dumbfounded. Only Antonin smirked in amusement. Hardened, Tom clenched his teeth. Where did this horror come from? He did not understand. Did they think he sympathised with the Nazis? "Hypothetically speaking, of course."
One could have heard a pin drop.
VI.
"In any case, it can be said that cruelty is a core of evil. There is little that is more amoral and depraved," Mr Lestrange broke the silence.
"Very true, Mr. Lestrange, very true." Dumbledore nodded.
Tom puffed. Evil. What a billet, what a fence post. Was the professor really going to start with the old chestnut of good and evil? He had a clear opinion on that. "Do you really divide the world into black and white, sir?" he sneered, also to distract from his previous statement. "There are only shades of grey, if you like. Even in the cruellest person you will discover positive qualities if you want to."
Dumbledore looked at him piercingly. His eyes were glued to Tom, so much so that it was already making him uncomfortable. "In dark moments, sometimes, I have my doubts... – But I fight it. I really hope so," he spoke in a low, imploring voice.
Before Tom could speak, Antonin rose. "I must apologise. It is getting late and the apparation from the Soviet Union is still in my bones. I will take my leave for tonight and go to sleep." Everyone nodded and wished him a good night. He returned it. "Thank you for the interesting conversation." As he passed Tom, he paused briefly and murmured to him, "And to you, thank you for the stimulating reading."
Antonin had barely stepped out of the room when Dumbledore turned to Tom. "You are right, of course. You cannot divide people into good and evil. Even a figure of light will have its dark side. But no one with a halfway well-adjusted compass puts people into any kind of pigeonholes. It's the deeds that you put into those categories."
Tom groaned.
"I actually thought you knew that, too, Tom."
His groan grew stronger. This self-righteousness that lay in Dumbledore's statement went against his grain.
"So deeds, not people, do you judge morally?" he repeated, but left no doubt that he didn't think it was right.
"Exactly, by principles of ethics," Dumbledore confirmed impassively. "One of Kant's four fundamental questions of philosophy. 'What shall I do?' "
Tom laughed. "And who gives the answer to that?"
"The Categorical Imperative."
"Of course. 'Act only according to that maxim by which you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law."
"I'm impressed, Tom."
"But it is window-dressing," he scowled. "It works from within. You can't get any more subjective than that. You can't tell me what to do with the Categorical Imperative."
Dumbledore smiled conspiratorially. "That's why ethics remains a much-trodden field to this day. His subjectivism makes the Categorical Imperative a stroke of genius."
Tom grumbled unenthusiastically. "It makes it useless."
"What is your concept, then?" asked Dumbledore. "If you suggest something better, I'll make sure you get an Order of Merlin, First Class."
"There is no concept," Tom hoisted indignantly. "There is only chaos, everywhere and on all levels. The universe is chaos, society is anarchy. Social rules are man-made, not natural laws, and they can be overturned. Laws are made to be broken. It's everyone against everyone. Nothing is constant except change." Horrified eyes gazed at him and his outburst. Yet he knew what he was doing. He had everything under control.
"You amaze me, Tom," Dumbledore said. "Surely these words do not match your other attitudes. The world is in chaos... – that is the perpetual state? Then why do you seek power? Why do you want to subjugate the Muggles?"
"With respect, sir. No judgement follows from the description. Man cannot cope with this kind of disorder. It is immanent that he fights against the spreading entropy. The rules of society are enforced by threat of punishment, under the power of the state... – Everything is just a question of power."
"And morally good is an action that benefits many, and bad is one that benefits few," reflected Mr Lestrange.
"There is only power and those too weak to seek it," Tom replied. Yes, that sounded good. It was short and sweet and for everyone to understand. The strongest always won. It was no different with the polity, which had a head of state.
Deep furrows dug into Mr Lestrange's forehead. "I don't know," he spoke reluctantly.
Tom gritted his teeth. He had wanted to recruit Lestrange as a supporter. That involved talking politics. It required telling him what he wanted to hear. Ethics weren't necessary... As it was, it could also screw up a well-laid plan. "So what about the Muggles?" asked Tom unabashedly. "Isn't it morally good to control them, so that the world can exist in peace?"
It annoyed him that he now had to formulate this point in a question. Dumbledore had lured him out of his reserve and in his zeal Tom had left blood on the carpet.
Mr Lestrange shrugged. "Power or no power... – It would violate the Categorical Imperative, I think."
Tom jaws ground on each other. This was not the outcome he had hoped for.
"Thank you for the excellent meal," Dumbledore said and stood up. "But now I must also take my leave. There is a meeting of the school advisory board scheduled for tomorrow morning, and I think Tom must also be on time and rested for duty tomorrow."
From that point on, nothing could be done. Dumbledore left voluntarily and he too was politely asked out. It was considered impolite to detain a guest too long – when one knew that there were obligations waiting for him the next day. Tom also could not downplay his activity at the shop or stress how unimportant it was – that would only have discredited him even more. So he took his formal leave and followed Dumbledore out the door.
VII.
Together they strolled along the gravel path in the moonlight. Darkness surrounding them, not much could be seen of the well-kept estate. A cool breeze gave them a tailwind.
"Tom, I sincerely hope you will reconsider your intentions."
He gasped. Now it started all over again. "I'll think about it." Politeness was still the surest weapon.
"I am serious and I hope you are too. Your actions could start a war against the Muggles," Dumbledore warned. "Believe me, that is not in your best interests."
Tom grinned to himself. Through the veil of darkness, he was sure the professor couldn't tell.
"Does the offer still stand for you to lend me your journal?" asked Dumbledore.
"No, sir, I have already promised it to Antonin Dolohov," he lied, biting his lips.
"Then so be it," Dumbledore surrendered, summing up, "It's been an interesting evening, and one that just cries out for a repeat."
"If you say so..."
"Yes, yes, don't be so modest, Tom. I'll also let Mr Lestrange know how much I enjoyed it and make sure he always invites us together, from now on."
Tom hissed. "It will be a real pleasure, sir."
"Goodbye, Tom," emphatically slowly, Dumbledore said goodbye and finally disapparated.
Alone, Tom stopped in front of the villa and looked back at the darkened mansion one last time. Just as he was about to leave, the lights came on again on the ground floor. The entrance door was opened and briefly closed again. A figure walked along the path and headed towards Tom. The footsteps came closer and Antonin peeled out of the darkness.
With a shark's smile, Antonin closed in on Tom. Over his shoulder he had slung a heavy-looking bag, which he dragged behind him. He had tied a pair of shoes to it with the shoelaces and thus also fastened a large cup. It had to be all his belongings – an adventurous sight.
"The Lestranges threw me out," said Antonin.
"It hasn't been long, I thought they were hospitable."
Antonin shrugged and his lips twisted again into the diabolical grin Tom had already admired at dinner. "I guess I overstayed their hospitality a bit. Yet one would have thought, as filthy rich as they are, they wouldn't mind."
Tom realised perfectly well that his counterpart wanted to make him curious with this cryptic insinuation. "What have you been doing?" he therefore asked. Antonin was in a chatty mood and he had to take advantage of that.
"I made a bloodbath," he whispered conspiratorially. The memory seemed to amuse him. "I dissected the house elf. An interesting anatomy – similar to human, yet so different."
The hairs on the back of Tom's neck stood up in excitement. This was no longer the boy he had known at Hogwarts. "Why did you do that?"
"Because I can... – Because I needed to quench my thirst for knowledge."
The confused child had grown into an unyielding adult. Tom smiled in amusement. "I hope that was worth losing a friendship over." Secretly, he clutched his wand tighter. With such lucid spirits, how did one know where one really stood?
Antonin's grin was wiped away. "Two… – I was friends with both of them." The corners of his mouth twitched and he made a hand gesture wiping away. "Oh, they'll be all right. No one can resist my charms."
They strolled away, a little further from the estate. "I believe you," Tom said meanwhile.
"What did you trade your intoxicating beauty for?" asked Antonin suddenly, his eyes meticulously studying Tom's countenance. "It must have been something valuable."
"Don't you have a home?" A counter question reliably distracted most – including his counterpart.
"As a matter of fact, no. My aunt and uncle also turned me out the door. That's why I was in the Soviet Union, at my parents' former home. I really thought I could start over there. But with Stalin's government..." He lapsed into a distraught silence.
Tom intuitively knew when it was better not to ask. The other's radiance just cried out to be left alone. In silent harmony they walked side by side.
"Can I stay with you for a while?" asked Antonin.
He had guessed the question was coming and yet he was still not sure what to answer. "I don't have much..."
His counterpart merely pointed to his backpack.
"But I'll share it with you," he said with a sigh.
"Thanks!" He looked genuinely relieved. His gait was a whole house number more upbeat.
"Now that that's settled, we can apparate." Tom held out his hand to him.
"I'm going along with your muggle-subjugation-thing, by the way. You can count me in on that, even if I'm the only one."
Dinner had been worth it after all.
In Antonin Dolohov he had found his first supporter, even if he was not yet sure whether he could really replace Abraxas. After all, Antonin was almost as penniless as he was. But he was optimistic that in time everything would find its way. "At least you understood: Muggles are an increasing danger to magical society. I can't understand how anyone can turn a blind eye to that after Auschwitz."
Antonin shrugged his shoulders in perplexity and at Tom's questioning look, he began to laugh maliciously. "Those pictures... – they were really exciting."
His plan, which he could not have conceived more calculatingly, had worked out after all. It was different from what he had compute, but at least they had found each other.