Checkmate

I.

01 September 1944

Tom Riddle did not play games. Neither card games, nor Gobstone, nor any other parlour games. Team games like Quidditch were a waste of time and he told everyone so. No one had even asked him to join since his first year. In the last, everyone would be careful not to make that mistake.

The only game he played now and then was chess, but that was not a game for him, it was life in miniature. More orderly, squeezed onto 36 boxes and with strict rules. He liked to watch his opponent break into a sweat. When furrows dug into his forehead so that a student looked like an old man. He loved to lay out red herrings and confuse so that his counterpart plunged into endless musings and made a wrong move. But he liked it best when he had put the other person under so much pressure that he no longer noticed that he had made a wrong move.

Tom Riddle overrode the rules and nobody noticed.

Of course, the requests to play had become fewer and fewer over the years. Nevertheless, Tom had a chess set in his suitcase.

With a creak, the compartment door opened just as the train rounded a bend and a tall, dark-haired boy came sauntering in. He held onto the luggage rack to keep from falling over. Behind him he dragged a worn leather bag, which rolled back a little. With a growl like a grizzly bear, he set after it and then heaved it onto his neighbouring seat.

Tom watched the kerfuffle and narrowed his eyes. He had to look at the boy for a few seconds before he could place him. Emblazoned on his uniform, which he had crisply thrown on, was a hissing emerald snake, which was not only Slytherin's mark, but Tom's as well.

He was the Heir of Slytherin.

It was just that no one knew that to be the case. Stupidly, he had committed murder before he could tell anyone about his venerable origins. Now it would be an admission of guilt at the same time, and Tom was too intelligent to perish in Azkaban.

Pride filled his chest, but there was also something else. The prestigious line ended with him – and lost the purebloodedness guarded for millennia. He preferred not to think about that, but he kept doing it. His Muggle father had brought him nothing but poverty and misery.

The strange boy was quite average and unremarkable, were it not for his prominent chin and dark, watchful eyes. Ah… yes, the Russian.

Antonin Dolohov, fifth year. A loner with a good scholastic record and a heavy Russian accent as soon as he opened his mouth. "Are there still folks coming? Is there a seat left here?" he asked Tom.

Folks, as Antonin put it, would not be coming, a seat was still not free. Tom was already sitting there. There was no way he wanted a passenger. "Isn't there anything free anywhere else?" he asked the counter-question, in a seemingly concerned manner. There were always seats available somewhere. At worst, the Hufflepuffs didn't send anyone away.

"Don't know, I wasn't looking." With a sigh, Dolohov dropped into the seat opposite Tom.

He frowned. That hadn't been an invitation. "Wouldn't you rather look again?" He wanted to read in peace.

"I quite like it here, all right. Unless you want me to leave?"

"No, you stay." He couldn't be straight up rude. That would put an unsightly crack in his hard-earned and well-cultivated reputation of being a model student. To make it clear that he did not want a conversation, he held the book right in front of his face.

Fortunately for him, his unwanted companion did not try to find a topic. Silently, Dolohov rummaged in his pocket. He was also known for that: Dolohov was a very bad speaker and a poor listener. No one talked much to him and he didn't seem to mind. He preferred to keep to himself.

Tom liked that in a person. He didn't look for it, because this independence was conceivably bad for a follower. The disciples he gathered around him should look up to him, they should want to be close to him. Only then would they follow him unconditionally one day. He was already far advanced in his recruitment, even if he was sitting here alone at the moment – at his own request!

Dolohov was rattling a wooden box.

Peeking over the edge of his book, Tom saw him handling a chessboard and placing the pieces in their initial positions. Rook, knight, bishop, queen, king. He knew what he was doing.

Annoyed, Tom realised that the chess set was a magical one. Those old things that shouted tips at the player or complained when they were sacrificed. That realisation alone made the blood rush to his ears before anyone had even made a sound.

"Yay, here we go!" a runner said as Dolohov finished.

"It won't bother you, will it?" the boy asked.

"It will."

"Hm." He probably hadn't expected that answer.

"It would be kind if you could put it away. I want to read on."

Dolohov did not lift a finger. "I don't want to play with you either, but against myself."

"Then the stupid figures are shouting even more what you should and shouldn't do."

"I don't have anything to read."

"Is that my problem?" he heard himself ask, but then he took a deep breath. What good was it going to do him? Dolohov was a lonely boy who seemed to have chess pieces for friends. The independence he exuded was something superficial at best. If Tom was lucky, then deep inside Dolohov seethed an insatiable desire for connection. If that was the case, all Tom had to do was say the right words now and he could generate the most ardent supporter yet. Someone who would die for him, as long as he wasn't so alone. What did he have to lose?

"Wait a minute," he said, pulling out his suitcase. "You can take my set."

He pushed aside two robes and his pyjamas, then he had found the chess set. Well, he still didn't really own much.

Dolohov watched him with attentive eyes. You could tell he was registering every move like an accountant. Tom didn't mind. Constant observation was something he was used to – from his classmates, from the girls, from Dumbledore.

He started to set it up for him when Dolohov didn't budge. When the last pawn was standing, he made an inviting gesture with his hand. "Have fun."

"You too." With these words, his counterpart took the black pawn in front of the king and placed it two squares forward.

Not a creative move. Tom sighed and wanted to turn back to his book, but Dolohov looked at him expectantly.

"I have never played with someone who had to ponder so long for the very first move." Dolohov smiled at him.

Tom thought back and could not remember ever seeing him smile. That was nothing out of the ordinary in the first place; after all, he was not of the cheerful type either. But Dolohov really did have a handsome smile that made his teeth flash. After a moment it was gone again and he looked as grim as ever. "I'm not pondering."

"Too bad, I thought you would have figured out how you were going to beat me by now. I already have a little plan."

Antonin would not dare to provoke him a second time. Snorting softly, Tom put his fingers to a white pawn and made the same uncreative opening move. "I accept the challenge."

He had never lost a game.

For a while they pushed their pieces across the board in silence, until suddenly Antonin leaned back and stretched. Tom knew immediately that something was wrong. Antonin had concocted some plan.

"Why do you own a Muggle chessboard?" asked Antonin on top of everything else.

Tom grumbled, but then launched into an actual answer. "I find the heckling of the magical sets distracting. I want to win alone when I win and lose alone when I lose."

His counterpart scratched his chin.

"Do you have anything to say against that?" What was that supposed to be? Tom found the Russian quaint, but so far the latter had not made the mistake of saying anything completely illogical.

"No, not really, just that you can also get better by accepting help."

He tried hard to keep his expression as petrified as possible as he pushed his rook forward four squares. Attack!

And because of the pointless conversation, Antonin didn't even see it coming.

"I learned the game from my father. He gave me a lot of advice and insights that, if I had been on my own, I would have had years later, if ever."

This possibility did not exist for Tom. He had no father to teach him anything. He had always been responsible for his own knowledge – for his own life. Antonin was a spoilt child like all his classmates. He grunted, but did not rub it in his counterpart's face. Instead, he pushed the bishop across the field.

Antonin's expression remained frozen, but he looked out the window rather than at the chessboard. "Can you tell me why I didn't actually become a Prefect?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't have any say in it. Not even as the new Head Boy."

"Congratulations by the way, how rude of me not to do that right away." Antonin reached for his hand and shook it. Reluctantly, Tom allowed the touch. He didn't like it, actually, but the warmth of Antonin's hand triggered a tingling sensation in his perpetually cold fingertips.

"Not to brag, but I'm top of my year," Antonin added.

It was quite bragging, but Tom said nothing. He preferred to pull the other bishop into the opposite corner. "Well, it's not only academic performance that counts, although that already makes up a large part. But what is important is that one is also a universally respected member of the house and can deal with many different people. That one is diplomatic, so to speak. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you tend to keep to yourself most of the time."

Antonin grumbled. "True."

With a gruff gesture that signalled he was unwilling to discuss it further, Antonin placed his queen right in front of Tom's king.

Striving not to make a startled sound, Tom pressed his lips together. He had completely overlooked the fact that his opponent had this possibility of a move. It had seemed too lurid to him.

Antonin, however, did not let him think any further. "What about you?"

"What about me, Mr. Dolohov?"

"Well – you're a loner too."

"You're wrong."

"Then why are you sitting here alone?"

Now he was getting cheeky. Tom didn't like that at all. Apparently he was not one of the reclusive sort who shied away from confrontation and secretly craved recognition.

"I wanted to read in peace," Tom grumbled. It sounded far too defensive for his taste, so he hung on, "Not that it was granted to me. As of tomorrow, I am Head Boy and have many additional duties to perform. Many will have concerns they want to discuss with me. I won't get much rest there."

The truth was that his supporters were talking about their summer. Periodically it degenerated into a competition. Who had taken the most expensive holiday? Who had travelled the furthest? Who had met the most influential people?

Of all these things, only the last interested him, and that only half. His followers met ministry officials in high positions – that was so, but only as appendages. Their parents were the real powerful ones. Only to a limited extent could they benefit and only in even more limited circumstances could Tom take advantage. He was tired of all the competition – for he was obviously the most talented student among them. Only he had Outstandings without exception. Nevertheless, he would have to work hard for everything in the future – at least as hard as he had worked for all the Outstandings – while many well-born Slytherins' wealth and influence just fell to them.

"Sorry to put a crimp in your plans." Antonin didn't sound a bit sad about it.

"If you want, you can come to a meeting of me and... – my friends. We talk a lot about politics, school and other things." He didn't believe that he was offering that, although he had noted moments ago that Antonin was not necessarily follower material. But he was talented and disadvantaged – like Tom. That made him interesting, somehow.

Antonin shrugged his shoulders. "Is it those knights? With Malfoy, Mucliber, Black, Selwyn and so on?"

"Yes." The corners of his mouth pulled up, he couldn't help it as he listened to the long list on his underlings. It was fantastic how many he already had in his pocket. And how rich and respected these families were.

"I'll pass, but thank you for the offer. I don't want to spend any more time with the high-born families than necessary. Not after years of them denying to me that my family is... or was... pureblooded as well."

That was interesting. Tom had witnessed the excesses of the conflict, but until now he hadn't cared. It had not seemed lucrative to him to care.

But before he could retort anything, Antonin said, "Checkmate, by the way."

Tom stared at the chessboard. Antonin's bishop was still in the corner of the chessboard, covering the queen. Damn! He had been tricked. And then such an unimaginative trick. He snorted as he realised he had to congratulate his opponent.

Luckily, at that second, the compartment door opened swingingly and Abraxas Malfoy walked in. "Tom, there you are. I've been looking all over for you. Won't you sit with us?"

He seized the opportune moment and, with an unsaid spell, thrust the chessboard into the air. The pieces followed in a high arc through the compartment.

"Oh, that must have been a puff of air!" exclaimed Tom, playfully excited and apologetic.

Abraxas and Antonin were both confused and did not see through the spectacle.

"Don't mention it." Antonin quickly picked up the figures.

"Is that a Muggle chess set?" croaked Abraxas and when he made no move to get up, Abraxas dropped into the seat beside him. "I didn't know you still had that?"

Tom just grumbled. It was one of his few possessions, of course he still had it!

Antonin puffed and reached for his worn bag. "Thanks for the game. It was really fun. You are a good opponent, I haven't had such an intense game in a long time. I won't distract you any further, I have to change anyway, I'm already late with it."

With a last fleeting glance at Abraxas, Antonin rose and disappeared. Tom looked after him in amazement. What was that quick exit all about? Yet he was already wearing his school uniform.

"He's a funny one, isn't he?", Abraxas engaged him in the next unnecessary conversation. "He always looks grim, I've never seen him smile. I'm surprised to find him with you."

Tom mumbled something unintelligible again, but Abraxas settled for the non-answer. He didn't have high standards for interlocutors, as long as he could relate. But his family had a lot of galleons and influence, so Tom had tolerated this behaviour for six years.

"Who won?"

"What kind of question is that? Me, of course. Do you think I'm going to let Dolohov beat me?" He thought it was a bit thick, but Abraxas didn't question it. He didn't even give it a second thought. By Merlin, why was Abraxas even conversing with him? Tom couldn't make sense of it.

"What did he want from you?", Abraxas questioned him further.

"Know why he's not a Prefect." Tom sighed. He knew any words would be immediately carried to the other Slytherins.

"Oh, how pretentious."

"He is ambitious."

"Dolohov is a communist, despite everything." Abraxas looked at him meaningfully.

Tom frowned. Despite everything? No, he didn't know what that meant. No one had ever talked to him about Antonin before.

"He's fifteen years old, I doubt he knows anything about communism."

Disapprovingly, Abraxas raised his eyebrows. "I don't like those revolutionary thoughts. He's a Muggle lover."

So that was how it was. Not Antonin, but Abraxas – and probably the other Slytherins – couldn't place communism. They understood some nonsense about it.

"Mulciber wanted to talk to you, by the way. There's some problem, but he wouldn't say which one until you got there."

Sighing, Tom rose and followed Abraxas to the others. He could no longer avoid the call of duty. Guaranteed Mulciber had some inanity on his mind again, which Tom – talented Tom, poor Tom, who could afford nothing – was to solve for him. They saw it as charity to provide him with work and a purpose in life.

One day the tables would turn.