Chapter 14: Strange meetings and unsettling discoveries.


XIV.
The Six-Fingered Gentleman
[London | December 23, 1943]


The rain spits cold against V. Spektor's face as she struggles with the crummy umbrella she nicked from the coat closet. She's already beginning to regret venturing out this evening, but time is of the essence. Over the past few months her father has taken seriously ill, and the fact that his illness coincides with hers—although their symptoms are very different—has been concerning her more and more. It's as though his entire being is fading—he's lost almost all of his memory, his voice is barely audible, and, strangely, V.'s own perception of her father is fading as well. Recalling memories of him from her childhood is becoming a struggle, and she swears she almost forgot his name just the day before.

She was at his bedside, lighting a candle so he could see his book of photographs. It soothes him, he says, to flip through the pages, look in on snippets of memories. For days has been staring at this one photograph in particular—a gnarled tree perched on the edge of a riverbank, a stone bridge in the foreground, slightly out of focus. There's a shadowed figure beside the tree, who V. guesses is a woman.

"Why d'you keep looking at that picture? It gives me the creeps." V. says, trying to turn the page for him. He puts his hand down heavily on the page to stop her.

"Every night. She visits me. In my dreams." He says, not looking up, but continuing to stare down at the book.

"Who is she?" V. asks.

"Your mother." He says. "Lenora." It's the first time she's ever heard her mother's name.

"Lenora." V. repeats the name. It doesn't feel like mother. "What does she say? In your dream?"

"Nothing." He holds up his hand, palm spread wide open. "She goes like this. But she's got six fingers..." He pauses. "You know, I always wanted to tell you. About Lenora. About…all that. But it would've been too much. You never would've grown to be the person you are today, with that kind of weight upon you."

"I don't see how it makes any difference." V says curtly. "I had a right to know. To know the truth."

"The truth is, you're my daughter. And I love you very much." Septimus Spektor says weakly, straining to look his daughter in the eye.

"What happened to her? To my mum?" V asks, removing the picture from the book and holding it up to look at it more closely.

"She died shortly after she gave birth to you." Septimus says, turning the page of the photo book, moving on to other things. "She would've liked you though. You remind me a lot of her."

"What was she like?" V sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the photograph.

"Curious, brilliant, and, if I may say, hauntingly beautiful." Septimus says, a smile lighting up his pale, heavily wrinkled face. "It's a shame, that there's such a…rift…between them and us. I never noticed much of a difference…"

"But what about me, dad? What does that make me?" She says, looking at her father. "I'm not one of them. But I'm not one of you either."

"I…I can't…" A great shadow passes over him. "You should…speak to…" He reaches for the parchment and quill he keeps on his bedside, for writing down brilliant thoughts that occur to him in his dreams. "Go here. He can tell you. I…I can't…" He folds the piece of parchment and presses it into her hand.

"Dad?" She pauses as she moves to leave the room. He looks up at her. "Did you love my mum?"

"Yes. Very much so." He says solemnly.

"And…do you love Victoria?"

"In a different way, yes." He says, turning back to his book.

"I'll…leave you to it, then." She goes to exit again, but stops at the door when she realizes she still has the photograph in her hand. She walks back over to hand it to him, but he shakes his head.

"You keep it." He says. "I don't need it anymore." V smiles sadly at her father and leaves, shutting the door quietly behind her.


She's got the umbrella up now, and she's walking quickly down an empty cobblestone street in Lambeth, lamps flickering in the dense gloom. This is the first time she's ever been south of the Thames, she thinks, as she tries to get her bearings. She steps in a puddle and the icy water floods into her black leather boots, their thin soles soaking up the moisture like parchment. Almost there. Just around the corner. And she comes to a large steel gate, behind which an austere brick building looms. She skirts the fence, around to the side, looks both ways, counts to three in her mind, and disappears—or so it seems. Where she had been standing, a large black snake is now coiled. She slithers effortlessly through a gap in the iron fence and into the small dirt lot behind the building that should be a garden. Now to find the right window... There are only a handful of windows still illuminated. She tries to catch glimpses of their inhabitants, but no luck. Look out the window. She hisses as loud as she can manage. Over here. Look over here. Her beady eyes catch sight of a second-floor window being opened farther, and a dark-haired boy peering out, scanning the dark yard. He shakes his head and walks away from the window. Gotcha.

Back in human form now, she picks up a small rock and throws it at the window. It clatters noisily off the glass, drawing the boy back within view. This time he sees her, standing in the darkness below, looking up at him. She motions for him to come down with a wave of her hand. He doesn't move. She repeats the hand gesture more forcefully. He disappears for a moment, then emerges from the window, and slides effortlessly down the drainpipe.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He says, his feet thudding on the damp ground. "Miss me that much, do you? It's only been a few days..." He drawls sarcastically.

"I need you to come with me." She says, surveying with mild amusement the Heir of Slytherin dressed in a grubby grey muggle pea coat and practically threadbare gloves.

"It's the middle of the night..." Is he scowling or smiling? It's difficult to tell.

"It's urgent." She says, pulling the photograph out of her pocket. "And, well...I'd feel better if you came with me. It would be good to have some backup in case things get...weird..."

"What exactly are you about to do?" He cocks an eyebrow.

"I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important." She says. He knows that's true. And he's really quite happy she's just shown up out of the blue—although they'd only been on holiday a few days he'd already begun to miss her. Not that he's going to tell her that.

"So where are we going?" he asks.

"It's not far from here. C'mon."


They're winding through the streets now, huddled under the umbrella, squinting at street signs, trying to keep the parchment from getting wet as they keep glancing at the address. After a quarter of an hour, they find themselves in front of a large tenement near the docks, and push back the arched door to enter it's cavernous foyer. The interior smells of damp decay, the lighting is poor, and the sounds of hundreds of tenants echo off the chipping plaster walls.

"Do you actually know this person?" Riddle asks as they descend the set of stairs leading to the basement. The stairs are rickety and he's about to put his hand on the bannister but immediately decides against it, as it's coated in decades worth of grime. She must not have heard him. God only knows what he's walking into. Not that he's worried. He hangs a few steps behind her, watching her move towards the red door at the end of the dimly lit hallway. Her boots squelch with each step, raindrops still cling to her long woolen coat. Her hair's all caught up in her scarf and he feels compelled to fix it for her, but stops himself. They've both reached the door now, and Spektor knocks three times. They wait impatiently, water dripping irritatingly from the pipes, faulty fluorescent bulb buzzing overhead.

"Guess they're not home." She turns her back to the door and looks up at Riddle, who's watching it intently. He nods his head, motioning with his eyes for her to turn back around. The door had opened just a crack.

"Hello?" She ventures, "I'm...uh...Victoria Spektor. My father, Septimus, sent me to speak with you..." The door opens fully now, revealing a short, stocky gentleman in a white three-piece suit and red bow-tie. His hair is white as well, and slicked back with a whole tub's-worth of pomade. This gentleman appraises the two scruffy-looking teenagers with a bemused expression.

"Victoria Spektor. Hmm well...Your time's just about up, then, isn't it? Why don't you come in..." He moves aside, extending his arm into the dark interior in what he intends as a welcoming gesture. Once Spektor crosses the threshold, the gentleman moves to block Riddle's entrance.

"And who's this?" He asks as if he already knows.

"Tom Riddle, sir."

"A human?"

"Yes, sir." Now that's a question Tom's never been asked before…

"Of course you are. Well, I can already see where this is going...Come on in then. Don't touch anything." The gentleman barks, hurrying him inside and pulling the door shut. Spektor's already wandered into the sitting room, a cramped space draped in red velvet. A fire's burning in the small brick fireplace, and a cigar is smoldering in an ashtray near a wingback armchair. Somewhere in the room a jazz record is playing, but she can't seem to find the phonograph. She's studying the titles on the bookshelf when Riddle and the gentleman enter. The gentleman strides over to the armchair and resumes his position, perching the cigar between his lips and taking a long drag. Riddle sits down on the couch opposite the fireplace, and a moment later Spektor joins him.

"To what do I owe the...pleasure...of your company, Miss Spektor?" The gentleman asks, exhaling a cloud of smoke directly into her face. She notices his hands for the first time.

"I don't really know...Why would my father tell me to come speak with you?" She asks the six-fingered gentleman.

"Hmmmm I would expect that has something to do with your age most likely. You're just about eighteen, am I right?"

"I'll be eighteen next month." She nods.

"And you've been feeling quite ill of late, haven't you. Like you're…losing your mind, perhaps..."

"She's not mad." Riddle says.

"Quiet, boy. Don't speak about things you know nothing of." The six-fingered gentleman says, puffing his cigar, unsettlingly casual.

"You said to me that my 'time's just about up'..." She says, her voice as tense as her muscles.

"Clever girl. Well, I'm sorry to say, but it looks like next month I'll be attending your execution." The six-fingered gentleman frowns, but there is no sadness behind it. It's like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Spektor feels faint. Riddle unconsciously reaches for her hand, which he holds for just a second before pulling away.

"And why am I going to be...executed?" Spektor asks as calmly as possible.

"When half-breeds—no offense—reach the age of eighteen, they must be euthanized. You see, you are two selves in one, completely at odds with yourself. You are a soulless being with a soul. You can imagine the damage that does to one's mind and body. The consequences are unspeakable, and, unfortunately, unavoidable. Once you reach maturity, you will go mad, and you will become a danger to society."

"What if I got rid of my soul?"

"You can't just throw your soul away, girl! You're half-human. Your mind would still crumble. It won't do you any good to mess with that sort of thing. A fool's quest." The six-fingered gentleman says this with a laugh that puts Riddle on the edge of his seat. Spektor, on the other hand, sinks back into the plush fabric of the sofa, running over every possible solution in her mind.

"You're a devil, aren't you?" She asks. The six-fingered gentleman nods, flashing her a charming smile. "What do you have against half-breeds, then? Why are you all so fanatical about keeping humans and devils separate?" The six-fingered gentleman erupts in a hearty laugh.

"Are you serious, girl? Have I not just explained to you what happens to half-breeds if allowed to live? We are fundamentally incompatible with the human race. Always have been. Always will be. Any devil tainted by intimate human contact is sentenced to death, and that's that. It has been so for thousands of years. Since the beginning of Time itself."

"So my mother was..."

"Executed. Soon after your birth."

"Why let me live then? Why not kill me as soon as I was born?"

"We have our reasons." The six-fingered gentleman replaces his cigar in his ashtray and rises from his armchair. The record has come to an end. The room is silent save for the crackling of the fire. He disappears for a moment to flip the record, returns with a bottle of sherry, and pours three glasses. He hands one to Spektor, and then to Riddle, locking eyes with the young man for an uncomfortably long time before withdrawing to his armchair once more. Riddle goes to sip his drink, but the liquid inside remains stationary. He tries swirling it around the glass but it's solid. Spektor looks at him quizzically, sipping her sherry, which is behaving normally. He turns his glass upside down to illustrate what's wrong and the drink dumps onto his lap. Fucking trickster. He bites his tongue.

"If devils hate half-breeds, and humans for that matter, so much—why did you invite us into your home?" Spektor asks, sipping the drink greedily. The six-fingered gentleman narrows his eyes at her.

"Your father was my business partner. When he became close friends with Lenora...well, I was very upset. But it seemed harmless...I didn't pay it any mind—I certainly didn't think she'd be so foolish about her affections, though..."

"Was Lenora..." Spektor begins.

"My daughter." The six-fingered gentleman finishes.

"That means...you're my..."

"Grandfather. Yes." The six-fingered gentleman says. There's nothing warm and fuzzy about this moment. "It's too bad, really. I was hoping to never meet you. Now that I know who you are, it'll be all the more unpleasant to watch you die."

"You can help her." Riddle orders.

"Help her? Haven't you been paying attention, boy? What do you expect me to do? I told you the consequences are unavoidable. Give her a few months and she'll be entirely unrecognizable."

"So you've never known of a...half-breed...to alter their fate?" Riddle asks.

"There was one. A very long time ago. But he was taken care of eventually." The six-fingered gentleman muses, lacing his fingers together and setting them on his lap. "He was also a wizard, interestingly enough. And a cheater. We don't take kindly to cheaters."

The tension's so thick in this small basement room you could slice it with a knife. As Spektor looks around, she has the uncanny sensation that the walls are wrong. The noodley saxophone solo is setting her teeth on edge. She reaches for Riddle's hand—it's as sweaty as hers. He shoots her a lets-get-the-hell-out-of-here look. The six-fingered gentleman has risen from his chair again, and is retrieving the bottle of sherry from the sideboard.

"Can I interest you in another...?" He offers. Riddle stands up, yanking Spektor up with him.

"We should get going. It's late..." Riddle says stiffly.

"No, please. Stay. I insist..." The six-fingered gentleman says, his voice as oily as his hair. He places a hand on Riddle's shoulder, causing the young man to flinch.

"It was very nice to meet you..." Spektor says, putting on an extremely fake smile.

"I wish I could say the same." The six-fingered gentleman says, smiling wide. "Forgive me for not showing you the way out. You'll figure it out, I'm sure." He says, and returns to his armchair and cigar. Riddle leads Spektor out into the hallway. Suddenly everything looks flipped, as though they are in a mirror.

"The walls are wrong." Spektor says. The red curtains billow in an absent breeze. She halts, pulling Riddle close. "The walls are wrong." She repeats, slightly horrified.

"No they're not. The door's over...here-" He says, pulling her towards what he remembers was a door. There's a red curtain there, which he pushes aside to reveal another hallway, much like the one they'd just walked down. "Shit." He mutters, a mild panic setting in.

"What about this way?" She pulls Riddle down the hall in the opposite direction. He stumbles over his feet as she drags him like a rag doll. The hallway is elongating. She pushes through the wall to their right and they both tumble into an empty room. Although they are able to stand, the floor appears to be slanted at a steep angle. Some sort of optical illusion. More red curtains. They hear that jazz record tinkling from somewhere in the distance. Something scuttles across the floor, causing Spektor to jump. She lands on Riddle's foot.

"Ow! What the bloody hell was that?" He takes out his wand to better illuminate the space. Whatever it was is gone now. He looks down at the young woman beside him. She's shaking.

"Please. Tom. Get me out of here." She says, trying to suppress the fear in here voice.

"We both still have the trace on us...but what do you think the chances are that anyone will care if we disapparate out of here..."

"I've never disapparated before..."

"Then hold on." He says, pulling her close. She wraps both arms around him and in a crack of light they're gone.