Checkmate

II.

30 May 1945

Antonin Dolohov knew how to hide. To be precise, Tom neither saw nor heard from him again until almost the end of his last year at school. He didn't even run into him during his many duties as head boy, where pupils from all houses sought him out. Soon Tom had pushed Antonin to the back of his mind and only thought of the strange boy when someone talked about chess.

Tom had no desire to deal with Antonin. He was not a born follower like many of the other Slytherins who practised leadership only to submit to the head of the family.

The final exams had been written and the results announced. Tom would leave school with a perfect NEWT. Everyone knew it, many had congratulated him and predicted a rosy future. It could no longer be denied.

Inwardly he shot a bombarda in every direction as he descended the stairs to the dungeon. In his mind's eye, he imagined the walls collapsing, leaving nothing but rubble. A rumble of thunder flying through the corridors and nothing of this hypocritical, sanctimonious institution would still be standing.

Without exception, he had no equal. He had played this game ad nauseam, he knew every twist, every crux and skilfully avoided them. And for what?

His mood did not lift when he saw Antonin Dolohov standing in front of the portrait that hid the entrance to the Slytherin common room. He didn't want company. No one would understand the anger he felt.

"How can you forget the password on the last day of school?" Tom greeted him. He still had to pack his things. Tomorrow they will all be leaving.

"I haven't forgotten. It doesn't work."

He had heard many excuses, but this was the worst. Dolohov must have done something wrong.

"Toujours pur."

Nothing happened.

Strange.

Instead of one person, there were now two standing in front of the portrait as if ordered and not collected.

"How can that be?", Tom asked himself.

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"I don't know everything."

"I didn't say that."

They looked at each other full of mistrust.

"Then we have to tell Slughorn." He was the last person Tom wanted to meet, but he had to go to his dormitory and pack his bags.

"Stop, where are you going?" Dolohov was a little out of breath when he caught up with him. "I want to accompany you."

If he had to. "To his chamber. He will hardly be in the office at such a late hour."

The closing time was gradually approaching.

"Where have you been?" asked Dolohov.

Tom wanted to put him in his place, but he paused. Inside he was seething and still saw the Bombarda flashing before his eyes, but he wanted to use the situation for a little game. "Where have you been?"

As expected, Dolohov instantly fell silent. He looked a bit put out, but not really annoyed. "I come from the library and you?" he finally replied.

That was an interesting answer.

"The exams are over. What were you doing there?"

"What do you do in libraries? Reading. I'm not just studying for exams."

Tom thought back to all the evenings he had spent among bookshelves, there were countless, but he had never crossed Dolohov's path. "I've never seen you in the library."

"Mostly I borrow books and read them somewhere else. In the summer I'm outside a lot, in the winter I'm in the dormitory. Is the interrogation over now?"

He didn't even sound annoyed, he sounded a little amused.

Suddenly Tom paused and, without warning, brushed across his counterpart's upper body.

Dolohov grinned. It was winning, his teeth flashing like those of a predator. Then it slowly fell into pieces as he realised that Tom had caught him in the act.

Under his robe, in the inner breast pocket, he could feel something square. A book, in all likelihood. "What have you got there?"

"Nothing," Antonin ventured, but they both knew he had lost.

"As head boy, it's my job to report thieves to the school administration immediately," Tom snarled. Antonin ducked his head. "Maybe we should rather go to Professor Dippet."

"I'll give it back. After the holidays."

"Don't try to fob me off with such bad lies."

By now fully furious, he pounded on the door of Slughorn's chamber. They waited a few seconds.

"Please don't," Antonin then suddenly relented. "It's an exciting book. I think you'll agree it's worth the risk."

Tom bit his lower lip and, realising that Slughorn would not open the door, turned to Antonin. "What are you talking about?"

Antonin smiled at him again. It was truly enchanting, if the magicians did not use this word so inflationarily.

Still grumpy, Tom followed the other's beckoning and they strode into a small side corridor where hardly anyone ever passed. Not even now, yet Antonin, paranoid as he was, looked around in all directions before theatrically pulling out the book.

Ta taa - Magick Moste Evile.

Tom was a little annoyed with himself for not recognising it by its dimensions. No other book was so small and thin and full of curiosities that it made your fingers tingle.

"Interesting read," he deigned to say. His voice sounded cutting and condemning.

Antonin looked confused at his tone. "Yes, isn't it?"

"What makes you think I have anything to do with dark magic?"

"You've been to the Forbidden Section a lot."

"That doesn't mean I think such spells are good. Or worthy of expulsion."

"But you find such spells interesting?"

"What makes you think that?"

Why was Antonin Dolohov so mysterious? Tom pierced him with dark looks. His counterpart swallowed. "Well..."

"No excuses."

"I hear things. Many things. And one of the things was that you're interested in dark magic. Very much so."

"Who told you that?" growled Tom. He had to know, even if it meant admitting that Antonin's suspicions were correct.

"No one, actually. I'm so inconspicuous to most people - the Russian, that's all - that they overlook me. Especially when I walk behind them and they talk. You get something interesting now and then, and a lot of crap, too, of course."

Tom rolled his eyes. He blanked out the background noise of those around him as soon as it didn't directly affect him. "Who was it in particular?" He would rip the head off his henchman in question.

Antonin shrugged again. "Malfoy. Mulciber. Black. The other Black. Nott. Selwyn."

"So everyone?"

"Everyone." Antonin grinned inanely, but also a little maliciously. A strange combination that Tom had never seen on anyone else. "You're a popular topic of conversation among the gentry, Your Highness."

"You don't say."

"Not only with the girls."

"Oh yeah?" That they were twisting their necks at him had been obvious. So he couldn't expect them not to talk about him behind his back. "What are they saying?" Antonin had been generous with information so far, because what did he have to lose? And questions cost Tom nothing.

"I think I'd better not tell you. Your mood is already in the basement, I don't want to see where it can sink to."

"Now I need to know."

"Need is a bit of an overstatement, don't you think?"

"No. What are they saying about me?"

"Only the best, of course, what else?"

Tom snorted. "I hate to repeat myself."

"Then we'll make a deal. First you tell me why you're in such a bad mood at the moment and then I'll give you a fit of rage by telling you."

Apparently the others said nothing about Tom's tantrums, otherwise Antonin would not see this as a good idea. Tom would have liked to blackmail him with the knowledge about the stolen book, but he was unsure whether he shouldn't rather take it from Antonin and keep it for himself.

"Agreed," Tom said. "I'm from the headmaster's office. Dippet turned down my request for a teaching position. I'm too young, in his opinion. People like me should travel the world and experience something for a few years before they become professors."

Antonin nodded in understanding, even though Tom couldn't really figure out what he understood. "People like you?"

"I grew up in the Muggle world, that's what he meant. He wants me to see more of the beautiful, magical world before I apply." His counterpart had his brow furrowed in deep thought. Tom was generally disturbed by this sight. Surely it was clear what he was thinking! "I'm not Muggle-born!"

"You grew up in a Muggle orphanage and you don't know your parents."

"So they have discussed that too?" he asked incredulously. His classmates knew that, didn't they? What was there to puzzle about? Tom could still remember all the times he had had to explain his ancestry – or rather the non-existence of one – to them. "Thry don't still think I stole any magic from anyone, do they?"

Antonin shook his head. "Not directly, but they are suspicious of your academic success."

"How can they be suspicious? It's a fact that I'm better than them."

"They always speculate where this talent comes from. Who you might have inherited it from. They cannot deny that you are more talented, just as they cannot deny my achievements. But it is also crystal clear that you are not a pureblood. You are the first wizard with your surname and unlike mine, it is an English one. There is no expulsion abroad for you."

Tom gasped. He was the Heir of Slytherin, but he couldn't reveal it to them without once again opening up the bottomless hole that was Myrtle's death. Not to mention, it would fuel rumours and conversations about him. "When do they talk about all this?"

How could he not have noticed that?

"When it's safe, you don't barge in. If you're in the library, for example, you rarely come back before curfew. Oh, speaking of which..." he pointed to the big clock hanging on the tower. It was time. "If we get caught, will you talk me out of it? I'll kind of escort you, today's your last day, blah blah?"

Tom nodded. It would seem a little strange, especially because they had nothing else to do with each other, but why not? It was his last day at Hogwarts, for fuck's sake, and he wasn't getting in the common room! "Was that the information that might trigger a fit of rage in me?"

Hesitantly, Antonin swayed his head back and forth.

"Now come on, we have a deal."

He sighed longingly. "The thing is: They're probably talking about you again right now – or me, who knows?"

"Because the entrance to the common room is barricaded?" croaked Tom. "Do they always do that to avoid embarrassing incidents?"

"If they concern you."

Tom clenched his hands into fists. "They thought I was going to the library and only now I was back." His breath hitched as he turned to storm back into the dungeon. Only at that moment did he realise how far they had wandered. They were standing on the seventh floor in front of the staircase to the Astronomy Tower. Tom paused as a hand – Antonin's hand – held him by his shoulder.

"Wait, please."

"Why should I?"

"Calm down." It was a whisper.

"No."

"Do you want to make a scene for them? Diva-like like an opera singer?"

Tom gasped and knocked his hand off his shoulder. "Don't touch me!"

He hated touching.

"Let's go to the Astronomy Tower while we're here," Antonin suggested.

"And then?"

"Then maybe we'll catch a couple making out that you can legitimately yell at."

"When I scream, it's always justified!"

"It is... – but the others are afraid of you. That doesn't help your rise to power if they already fear you like the grim reaper."

Tom's head was pounding. His fingers twitched and he wanted to draw his wand. Bombarda! Bombarda maxima! And a few dark curses after it! "They discussed that too?" he nagged.

The rest of the gossip was annoying and showed that his followers did not follow his orders one hundred percent. But the fact that they were talking about his plans was simply dangerous!

Antonin gave him no answer, but sprinted up the stairs to the tower. Tom rolled his eyes and dashed after him.

The night sky was starry. A few dark clouds drifted over, but otherwise the moon and stars twinkled. Tom would call it beautiful, maybe even romantic, if he had the sense – or even the time.

Out of breath from rushing up hundreds of steps, he stepped onto the platform and his heart slipped into his pants when he saw Antonin sitting on the edge. His legs dangled in the open and he even had the courage – or the madness – to look down.

Breathing heavily, Tom booted behind him and put his hands on Antonin's shoulders.

The latter turned and smiled at him conspiratorially.

Tom noticed how the corners of his mouth lifted too and he let himself be infected by the smile as if by a disease. He tried to push it back again – he was angry, holy Salazar – but it didn't work.

"Sit down for a minute." Antonin tapped the stone next to him.

He did what he was asked. His counterpart was probably right: he was too angry to go to the dungeon now. He was too confused. His followers were not as loyal to him as he had believed. How had he lied to himself? Of course they hadn't forgotten his lowly birth and the fact that he wasn't a pureblood. No one ever really did.

It was summer, the stones on which they sat had been warmed by the sun during the day. They sweated in a warm summer night breeze and looked into the abyss.

"Do you also wonder at moments like this what it would be like if you jumped now?" asked Antonin into the silence. "A little jolt and..."

"Never."

"Never?"

"Never. I don't want to die."

"What if you could die and watch your funeral? Watch people cry? And then start a new life?"

"They wouldn't cry." He doubted anyone would come at all. Tom laughed to himself. Of course no one would come, because there was no one to organise a funeral.

"None of your friends?"

Antonin was strangely insistent about this, but Tom sensed that the reason was not with him. "Do you think no one would cry for you?" he asked back. Those who asked questions did navigate the conversation.

Antonin shook his head. "I am an orphan. Just like you. And I have no friends."

Tom shrugged his shoulders. "Honestly, what's the point? Why are you so worried about it? If someone comes to your funeral or not, if someone cries – if there's a funeral at all – you'll be dead, what do you care?"

"To think about death is to think about life."

"It's too philosophical for me, too much Socrates."

Tom rummaged in his coat pocket and all the time Antonin's dark, watchful eyes were on him. Tom felt them digging into him. The feeling was intensified when he offered him what he had found: a packet of cigarettes.

Hesitantly, Antonin took one in his hand and eyed it suspiciously.

Tom grinned at the display of concentrated ignorance. "Here, you have to..." He showed him how to light it magically and took the first puff from his.

Antonin followed suit and inevitably he coughed and croaked. "Shock... – ih! Uh!"

But he took a second pull. And a third. He was a masochist.

Tom laughed at the other man's disgusted expression. He had wanted to observe it on someone for a long time, but he hadn't found anyone to offer a cigarette to. The other Slytherin students avoided Muggle things like the devil avoids holy water... or whatever the magical proverb equivalent was.

"Why are you doing it?" asked Antonin.

"It's addictive," Tom said indifferently.

"And you just give up control?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Why not? It's just smoke, nothing bad. I can stop at any time."

Antonin put the cigarette between his lips again, inhaled deeply and coughed afterwards.

"Why don't you like the others?", Tom suddenly heard himself ask, and only when it was spoken did he realise that it had been bothering him for a long time. "Especially the purebloods. You avoid them, I've noticed."

"Well observed."

"Now say, why?"

"If I can keep the book in return." Antonin wiggled his eyebrows and leaned against Tom as if against a wall.

Tom sighed. He had read Magick Moste Evile many times before, he didn't really need it. Besides, Antonin would surely lend it to him if he asked for it, he didn't seem the recalcitrant type. If the worst came to the worst, he could always break his promise and rat him out. "Fine by me."

"Aren't you also tired of the arrogance of the purebloods?" asked Antonin.

"Counter-questions were not part of our agreement. Aren't you a pureblood too?" Half an hour ago... – the half hour was already long gone – he had just claimed such a thing. It was crazy how quickly time flew when you had good company...

His counterpart pressed his lips into a thin line. "I am... – Or was. My relatives here, my aunt, don't care much for status. Still, that side of the family has galleons like lacewings."

"And you don't?"

"Yes, also. But I won't get my parents' inheritance until I'm of age. So only one and a half more years, then I'll have so many Russian roubles I never have to worry again in my life."

Maybe Antonin would make a good knight after all. He was honest and had money too. If he now had good contacts in the Soviet Union...

"And you don't like your aunt?" He had to get to know possible candidates, and if he found a weak point, they were ideal.

"It's mutual."

"And what doesn't she like about you?"

"My ideology, I guess."

"Communism?"

Suddenly Antonin grabbed him by both shoulders and turned him around to face him. Their faces were so close that they breathed on each other. Tom wanted to back away, but Antonin did not let go of him.

It would also have been rude, he thought to himself. Not helping his cause by showing that he found Antonin – in fact all people in general – repulsive.

"The purebloods are the magical bourgeoisie. Don't you see that?"

"Uh... yes..."

"They live in their inherited wealth and oppress the poor pigs. They influence politics, the ministry and twist all endeavours to benefit them. The gap between rich and poor has widened even more in the last decades, the class differences have become entrenched."

Tom swallowed. This had escalated far too quickly. "Pardon me, but you are also a pureblood. What do you know about poverty?"

"Nothing, admittedly, but you way too much. Don't you think it sucks that you're so talented and yet you have to fight for everything while it falls into the laps of the snobbish Malfoys?"

Anger flared up again in Tom at the thought. If he could, he would... ruin the Malfoys and many other pure-blood families. Maybe then it would be easier for him to get the respect he deserved. But…

He could not do that. He needed the support of the rich families. Only they could implement his goals, for the Muggle-born and half-breeds among the wizards were already too anti-authoritarian to let him accumulate power unchallenged. They would question him, while the purebloods had forgotten how to question in their encrusted structures.

Even though it would be easier to attain power without the purebloods, maintaining it – which was the real challenge of any rule – could not be done without them.

"You can't imagine how much I hate it," Tom said in a grave voice.

Despite the words, Antonin nodded in understanding. For whatever reason.

"It's true, I won't be able to imagine it, but I know what it's like to have to fight for a place in society," Antonin replied. His fingers around Tom's narrow shoulders curled into his robes and pressed against his collarbone. "Many can't manage to find their place at all, and they don't even have to get out their daggers."

Tom growled.

"You must know, I know what they say about me. I am only the Russian, the Soviet, the Communist. They shun me, just as I shun them."

"Why are you avoiding them?"

"They wouldn't understand me. They don't want to. No one understands why I adhere to communist ideas, even though my parents were murdered in the course of Stalin's purges." The tip of his nose almost touched Tom's. Several, small veins had burst in Antonin's eyes. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot and made him look like the undead. Like a ghost.

A spectre is haunting Europe – the spectre of communism... Workers of all countries unite.

"They worshipped Stalin fervently, my parents..."

Antonin's grip loosened, his fingers roamed loosely down his chest. Sadness had crept into his face. Tom thought he saw tears sparkling in his eyes. So there he was, the vulnerable Antonin Dolohov.

Tom had found his weak spot.

In order not to let them flutter away, Tom reversed the gesture. He put his hands on Antonin's shoulders, held him tight. "I understand-"

He could no longer finish his sentence.

He had misjudged the whole situation and it took him by surprise, although... yes, actually he should have seen it coming.

With a sigh, Antonin bridged the last distance between them. They were teetering dangerously on the edge of the abyss they had just looked into when Tom tried to back away.

He was too slow. (And too indecisive.)

Antonin's warm lips pressed against his and only now did Tom feel the cool wind that roared around the tower and through their hair. He shivered a little. Goosebumps had formed on the back of his neck and his outstretched arms shook. Under his fingertips he felt Antonin's robe and he could trace the other's collarbone with his index finger. (He was quite athletic. Surely he worked out.)

His lips were soft, but the stubble on his kin scratched Tom's skin. He smelled of cigarette smoke and tasted of tobacco. But something made him lean into the kiss against all expectations. He closed his eyes. It was too late. (Then he could enjoy that now - er, take advantage of).

He pulled back a little, only to press his mouth against Tom's again. He knew what he was doing. Antonin had put him in checkmate. Suddenly he lacked the upper hand and his insides contracted painfully. It stung in the area of his stomach. (Or was it his heart?)

Tom wrenched his eyes open and looked back into Antonin's dark and bloodshot eyes. In the fog of his wandering thoughts, there seemed to be a red glow over the iris. Panting, Tom pushed him away from him.

Antonin gasped in fright when he saw Tom jump up. "I'm sorry!" he croaked. "I didn't mean to push you."

Did he? Didn't he? Yes, he did. No, he didn't. He had let it happen. He could have fought back much earlier. He didn't want to. He couldn't. He had wanted to win Antonin as a follower.

Confused, Tom ran a hand through his hair. "Don't you ever tell anyone what happened."

He jumped down the stairs and stormed into the dungeon. It was well past midnight and he still had his suitcase to pack! What was he thinking?

"Mr. Riddle, what are you doing in the corridors so late?" Dumbledore stood in his way. Tom just barely managed to stop or he would have knocked the professor over. "Shouldn't you be celebrating with the other Slytherins?"

"Old fool!" hissed Tom. What did he have to lose? The house cup? He wouldn't be able to give him detention either.

"Are you all right?" Dumbledore played the role of the concerned Samaritan excellently. You could almost take it from him, but Tom was smarter than that.

"I hate you," he hissed and stormed past him. He did not look back to see Dumbledore's lying halo one last time.

The portrait opened without complaint when he barked the password. A wild party was going on in the common room. Everyone was too drunk to notice that Tom had entered and Tom in turn took only passing notice of the party. As if in a dream, he flung his things into the suitcase, which almost fell apart, and then he was ready to leave. Ready for a new phase in his life.

Without Hogwarts.

Without a home.