Chapter 2 - In the Ministry
Although the Malfoys were not Ministry employees, they were just as regular in and out. They were lobbyists at their best and on a first-name basis with almost every high-ranking wizard. Armand Malfoy had perfected the art of financial influence and for some time now – Tom didn't know how long – he had been initiating his son into the ways of it. Unlike Abraxas, Tom had never had a father to teach him anything. He had had to learn everything himself – if he hadn't learned it together with his classmate at Hogwarts.
That's why he needed Abraxas, because he had everything Tom didn't have. An important name, an influential family and riches, more than one could spend in a whole lifetime. Tom brought the rest, intelligence, eloquence and charm... – the latter was a little rusty, but once people got used to his new appearance, he would be a grand master of manipulation again.
As if he belonged there, he walked through the corridors of the ministry, the hood of his cloak pulled deep into his face. He was on the third floor, in the corridor where the offices of Magical Law Enforcement were. As he passed, he nodded in a friendly manner to the oncoming passers-by, but they only widened their eyes in fright and quickly looked in another direction. They pretended not to have seen him, as if he were air. It was ridiculous, but it served his purpose and so he forbade himself to get upset about it. Silent he approached more and more the small group walking in front of him. It consisted of Armand and Abraxas, as well as the deputy head of the law enforcement agency. The two Malfoys had stepped out into the corridor from a meeting and had happened to catch the Auror, who must have been on his way to the toilet. A great misfortune for him – for now the wizard was caught in a conversation and could not attend to his urgent need. The pattering footsteps told Tom from a distance that the man had other than a good conversation in mind. In fact, the Auror managed to break away when Tom was only a few metres away.
The two Malfoys bade a formal farewell and continued their way through the Ministry. Tom followed them on quiet soles.
"That went well," Abraxas said hopefully. "It was more than I expected."
Armand grumbled. "Don't flatter yourself, boy. The man had pressure, he'd have said anything not to wet his pants."
"Hmm."
"There's no hard feelings. I just don't want to see you building castles in the air again that end up getting smashed." His father put a hand on his shoulder, but Abraxas shook it off. "I hate to say it, Abraxas, but your marriage is over. Even if we get her out of Azkaban, she has been legally convicted. You shouldn't burden our family with someone like that."
"She is part of my family – she is Lucius' mother. I don't want him growing up without her."
Armand sighed. "I don't want that either, but you must realise that she is not fit to look after him on a daily basis."
"Who else is going to do it? If I let him spend any more time with the house elves, he will speak of himself in the third person."
"You need a nanny. I would have asked for that with Ariana in the house."
"It's a stranger. How can I be sure she'll take decent care of Lucius at all times?"
"How can you with Ariana?" his father countered. "She's a convicted murderer. That she can end a life, she has proven."
"Stop it!" he whispered. "I still love her, there's nothing I can do about it either." Abraxas paused and propped his forehead on his hands. Tom moved closer to him. It was too late. – If he had turned on the spot, he would have attracted the Malfoys' attention too.
With pity Armand looked at his tormented son. He was about to put his hand on his shoulder again and had already raised it when Abraxas suddenly straightened up. As if he had seen something monstrous, he recoiled from Tom, who had just stepped up to them. "What are you doing here?"
Tom felt he had heard enough. Now he had to go on the attack. "I had a job interview... – I'm just on my way back," he lied.
His counterpart raised his eyebrows. Disbelief was written all over his face. Armand put his hand on his shoulder – again –, but Abraxas did not notice it this time. Even when his father said "I'll go ahead" and disappeared into the lift, he hardly registered it. Abraxas' eyes were glued to Tom. "You don't work at that little teashop anymore?"
He swallowed. "Until I find employment elsewhere, I will continue to do so." Somehow he had to pay the rent on his flat, but he didn't have to tell Abraxas that. The concept would be an incomprehensible one to him. At the very most, he had once learned the facts from the landlord's point of view.
"Good luck then!" Abraxas nodded reservedly, wanting to say goodbye.
"Wait, how are you?" Tom stopped him. He wasn't going to let him off that easily, even if he couldn't backhand him with a curse.
Abraxas paused in his movement and looked around. When there was no one in earshot, he said, "I don't want anything more to do with you, Tom. You're intelligent and I'm sure you've already understood that."
"Abraxas, hear me out."
"I don't know what you're trying to tell me."
"Therefore, I beg you to let me finish." He took a breath and when Abraxas made no effort to protest, he elaborated, "I understand that you are angry with me. I interfered in things that were none of my business. What do I have to do to make you forgive me?"
He gave him a dark look. "Make amends for what you have destroyed. Get Ariana out of Azkaban."
Tom stared at him. "How am I supposed to do that? If you can't do it, with all your connections, who will?"
"Where there's a will, there's a way, Tom."
"Yes? You have the will, clearly – and where is the way?" he retorted.
"It's not easy. If it was easy, I wouldn't have said it," Abraxas huffed. "You did it, Tom, take responsibility for it."
"Responsibility?" Tom clenched his hands. "Aren't you the one acting irresponsibly? Are you thinking of Lucius too? How can you trust a murderess?"
His eyes seemed to pop out of his eyebrows. "How could I trust you? You have no morals and no decency, just a stone cold mind and you love nothing but yourself!"
What was wrong with that? After all, he wasn't a destructive egomaniac or an emotional fool?
"I will free Ariana."
Abraxas froze.
"Then you will regret your words." He pushed his lower lip forward defiantly, trying to leave an innocuous impression.
"If she forgives you, then so do I." Longingly, Abraxas looked at him. Whether his gaze was on his counterpart or on the thought of his wife, Tom did not know.
"She will forgive me."
"I must go," Abraxas said curtly. "The upheaval in the Soviet Union is going to shake things up. I have another appointment with a management consultant." With a nod, Abraxas took his leave, only to find himself awkwardly facing Tom in the lift. The silence of the once warm Abraxas was painful.
"Are you under a lot of stress?" asked Tom as a result. "Stalin's demise was unforeseen, a stroke is just not good to predict."
He watched, perplexed, as Abraxas's eyebrows slowly rose. They paused in the middle of his forehead, and Tom could see him thinking of the next words to say. Abraxas liked to gossip for a living – it made him feel superior. As far as magic was concerned, he had always been average – the connections in the Ministry, his friendly nature that endeared him to everyone, made him stand out. Tom was sure that Abraxas felt a rush when he could tell someone something they didn't already know. The more secret and exclusive the knowledge, the greater his desire to shine with it.
"What don't I know?", Tom spurred him on.
"Stalin was assassinated." Abraxas' resistance was broken. "By a magician. One could produce a magical poison."
"Oh!"
"It gets worse: there are preliminary clues to the assassin, which is highly exclusive." Abraxas lowered his voice and leaned towards Tom. "I know from my father, who knows from the head of Magical Law Enforcement. The Soviets have made an extradition request. The murderer is a Briton."
"Who is it?" it shot out of Tom. That knowledge was valuable – his friendship with Abraxas was precious because of that and much else.
Innocently, he shrugged. "I don't know, neither does my father. It was subject to the strictest secrecy."
At that moment, the lift arrived on the ground floor and they parted ways from then on. Abraxas stalked to the fireplaces while Tom took the visitors' exit and walked home.
Tom had to hurry so as not to be late for work. He had taken the morning off to spend a few hours walking seemingly purposefully along the ministry corridors to meet Abraxas with a semblance of serendipity. The wind chimes purred as he pushed open the door to the saleroom of the small tea and spice shop. The shop was in Knockturn Alley, his flat above and his employer also his landlady. The pay was poor because she deducted board and lodging. Tom would not become rich on his wages, but he did not think of applying away. He had only auditioned at Borgin & Burke's, but they no longer wanted to employ him because of some artefacts that had disappeared five years ago.
"Ah, here you are at last," he was told by Mrs Gardener, though he was not late.
"I hurried, Mrs Gardener, and I'm on time," he returned with a charming smile.
"As always." She too pulled up the corners of her mouth, but it looked highly irritated.
He eyed her but did not address her strange behaviour. She too was bothered by his outward appearance, for if he had waited on her with the face of his father, she would now be flirting with him. Not infrequently Tom saw her pining after Alfonso, the delivery boy.
"Where were you today, if you don't mind me asking?"; she started a conversation.
Tom smiled to himself. It was good that she had thawed out so far. "At the Ministry, visiting a friend."
"Oh," she rounded her mouth. He loved to make her think he had powerful friends. Maybe she would think of that the next time she had to raise the rent.
He grabbed the order book and flicked through it briefly. "As usual? Or is there something urgent?"
She thought for a moment, then pointed her fingers in the air. "Indeed, good of you to ask. The delivery to Johansen has to go out tomorrow morning. It came in at short notice today, but he's paying a little extra for it."
"Good, then I'll be in the warehouse," he informed her, and already he had disappeared out the back door to move boxes. He preferred this work, even if it was menial, to sales work. That way he could hide in the warehouse and deny that he had ever got his hands dirty.
The wind chime rang again. He heard the door slam shut as he examined random samples from a delivery. The space in Knockturn Alley was limited. It was impossible to store everything, which was why Mrs Gardener specialised in exotic merchandise.
Several feet, almost a horde, stamped across the floorboards. Tom wondered at the sudden rush, it was extraordinary. Most of the time there was not much to do. The shop barely managed to stay afloat, a large part of her sales went back to other entrepreneurs. She had her regular customers and only served the street business on the side.
"Mrs Gardener?" a dark voice asked. It was the beginning of an atypical sales pitch.
"How can I help you?"
"You rent out the flat that's above your place, is that right?"
"That's right," she confirmed. "It's not vacant at the moment, if that's what you're asking."
Tom put aside what he had in his hands and listened.
"You're renting to a Tom Riddle?"
He saw himself confirmed, they were here because of him. He had already guessed that, but the procedure seemed strange to him. And how did they know where he lived? Confidently he went to the door and said, "Who wants to know?"
The crowd of wizards and witches flinched as if a thunderclap had fallen upon them. Reflexively, their hands slid to their wands. The pieces of the puzzle gradually fell into place as Tom noticed the silver Auror badge on the mob's capes.
"Don't move!" someone barked.
Five wand tips were pointed at him. Their gazes swept over his distorted appearance and his red glowing eyes. Many times Tom had been able to watch the reactions to his changed countenance, never had such horror been reflected in the eyes. The fear would have amused him had the strangers not come in fives from a law enforcement agency. He suspected he had stumbled into something that could destroy his reputation forever. Feverishly, he thought about how to act – letting his blindsided feelings run wild promised to end in disaster.
Inwardly he tried to pull himself together, but it was seething under his skin. They dared to raise their wands against him! He pressed his hand against his pocket. He could feel the wood of his wand through the fabric. It would have been easy to emerge victorious from a duel five against one – he was an excellent duelist. But his opponents were Aurors – the misunderstanding would not be cleared up with a fight.
Emphatically slowly, Tom raised his arms.
"Expelliarmus!"
His wand flew from his cloak pocket and came to rest at the feet of an Auror.
"Good, now don't move and we won't have to put a stupor on you," another warned, cautiously approaching. From his pocket he pulled out handcuffs and showed them to Tom. "I'm going to put these on you now."
"There's no need for that!" he growled.
"It's protocol."
"What do you want from me? It must be a misunderstanding, let's talk without this fuss."
"We will do that, afterwards... – I promise."
Two more aurors strode towards him. They grabbed him and twisted his hands behind his back. The cold metal burned at his joints. The locks clicked and already his hands were bound. Gritting his teeth, he allowed it.
They were arresting the wrong man – they would be sorry. He glanced at Mrs Gardener, who was as pale as a bedsheet, clinging to the counter. Her eyes wide, she watched what was happening and almost forgot to breathe.
He ground his jaws together. News of his arrest would spread like wildfire. If anyone didn't know his name yet or had forgotten it – now they would be remembered or in need to learn.
"What am I being arrested for?" he demanded to know, hoping it was nothing too horrifying.
"You are under arrest for the murder of a Muggle. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you before the Gamot," the Auror lectured him by default.
"Who am I supposed to have killed?"
"Joseph Stalin."
"WHAT? ... – Oh, no..."
oOo
For this afternoon, he had planned to go through the OWL exam drafts. He still had to discuss them with the respective professors and also coordinate them with the examinations office. Since it was Dumbledore's first year as headmaster, he could not yet estimate the time frame for these tasks. He preferred to plan with a buffer. He had just opened the Potions exam paper and was bending over it when there was a knock at his door. After an "Come in," Slughorn stumbled in with his head held high.
"Ah, Horace, it's good to see you. I was just thinking about you," he said, pointing to the pile of parchment lying on the desk in front of him. "On this occasion we can talk about your draft right away."
Slughorn sat down in the visitor's chair – the very one in which the strange likeness of Tom Riddle had been enthroned three weeks ago. "We can do that if you like," he replied, looking absent-minded.
He knew something was bothering his colleague. The latter only took up the ordeal of climbing the stairs to the headmaster's office when disaster was approaching. He scrutinised his counterpart urgently, as he had scrutinised many students or applicants for the DADA post. "This draft is not fundamentally different from the exam you set seven years ago." Despite knowing better, he decided to put his issue on the table for now. Slughorn would speak when he was ready. "I know it is difficult to come up with new tasks every year and seven years is a long time indeed. However, the questions and the potion are exactly the same as seven years ago. So for students preparing with legacy exams, it might be disproportionately easy."
"If they're so diligent, why not let them have the advantage, Albus," Slughorn sighed.
"You just want to find the next Tom Riddle," he teased him. Fascinated, he watched Slughorn wince at the mention of his former favourite pupil, as if someone had put the fire brigade band in front of his bed at dawn.
"Mr Riddle was an excellent student..." Slughorn had raised his hand in front of his mouth so that his words were almost impossible to understand. "I just wonder if I didn't see something in him that hadn't been there."
They were unusual words for the potion professor. Neither had Dumbledore ever heard him admit to a mistake, nor had he ever second-guessed himself. That his idolatrous love for Tom, of all people, would trigger this was something Dumbledore could never have foreseen. "You never really know anyone – some people don't even know themselves."
Slughorn stared off into the distance. "I was going to ask you... – you had guessed?"
The longer the conversation went on, the more adventurous it became. Probably this was going to be a day he should mark on the calendar. "I don't know what you mean, dear colleague."
His counterpart looked at him as if he had cracked a bad joke. Yet he had a good sense of humour and was not at all in the mood for jokes right now. "Didn't you read the Daily Prophet?"
"I've been so busy with the final exam drafts. You wouldn't believe how much work it is until you have to do it yourself." Slughorn's melodramatic expression registered with growing concern. "Is there something I need to know?"
"Just read it. You do subscribe to it."
He looked around and grumbled. That his colleague didn't just tell him what was going on bugged him. Could it really be important then? And if it was significant, why waste time with such unnecessary drama? Knowing that Slughorn was unteachable in this as in many other respects, he reached for the newspaper lying on the desk beside him. It was buried by many stacks of parchment drafts and the latest issue, Transformation Today.
"Page three," Slughorn informed him.
Dumbledore groaned inwardly. This was the politics section. He didn't have the muse to get into a discussion with him. It was also highly unusual. Slughorn did have a political opinion, but rarely took part in a conversation about it because it was as private to him as religion was to others. When he saw the headline, the pieces fell into place with a drum roll.
Briton Tom Riddle arrested for murder of head of state Stalin
Extradition to Soviet Union up for debate
"This is what you wanted to show me?" asked Dumbledore unnecessarily, but it took him a little while to process the new knowledge.
Slughorn nodded, but at that moment they seemed to dwell in two different worlds. His attitude towards Tom Riddle, at any rate, came from a different hemisphere than that of his colleague. "Could you have imagined that? ... – Mr Riddle... – a murderer..."
"Hm... - and one with extraordinary goals to boot."
His counterpart looked at him anxiously. "You suspected?" he croaked. "I knew you never liked that boy..." he shook his head, "Mr Riddle. The two of you weren't on good terms, when you could have been quite fond of each other."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he straddled it.
"I just mean you both like mental challenges. You love to argue when everyone else has long since put their fingers in their ears out of desperation."
With a smirk, which puzzled Slughorn greatly, Dumbledore thought back to his last conversation with Tom. Oh yes, he was right. They were intellectual archenemies. This was the path Tom had taken when he was still at school.
"I had noticed his fascination with dark magic earlier," Slughorn began to tell him. "But I hadn't thought anything of it. Everyone goes through phases like that, don't they? Where you ask about darker things and why they're wrong?"
With every word it became clearer that Slughorn wanted absolution. "I don't think you've done anything wrong. Such a development is not to be foreseen."
Drivingly, Slughorn nodded. "Then it must have happened while he was away. Who knows what happened to him there. Did you see his face?"
"I did."
"What magic does such damage?"
"He wouldn't tell me."
"You asked him?" Full of horror, Slughorn glared at him. "How could you ask him such a thing?"
Dumbledore didn't understand the problem. "I offered him my help."
"It's unseemly, isn't it?"
He shrugged. "After all, I am his former teacher."
"Yes, the emphasis is on 'former', Albus! A certain polite distance should still be maintained."
He fell silent and skimmed the first few lines of the newspaper article. There was probably clear evidence against him, a confession was still pending. He was probably being interrogated at that very moment.
"What did you offer him your help for?"
As Dumbledore looked up again, Slughorn slid forward in his chair. Excited as one of their students, he looked. "Well, that would have taken a response from Tom."
"Tom? You still call him by his first name? I thought you'd have dropped that by the time he graduated."
"It's his name, isn't it?"
"You don't call any of your other students or alumni by their first names either. Why him of all people?" Urgently, Slughorn looked at him.
"Where are all these questions coming from all of a sudden?" countered Dumbledore. "Have you been saving them all for today?"
"Now that I know what sort of wizard I've been dealing with all these years – and see through how he's been deceiving me – I'm shocked. And I'm surprised you can stay so calm as if nothing is wrong. I mean, there are so many graduates who have ended up in Azkaban later on, but never a former Head Boy."
Slughorn couldn't fool him. He knew that Slughorn was particularly pained by the fact that Tom had been his favourite pupil. In fact, he had given him countless recommendations over the years and praised him beyond measure. The newspaper article was a hard slap in the face for the self-styled philanthropist who thought he was promoting a disadvantaged boy. In a tone so calm it astonished even him, he replied, "Azkaban is one thing, Horace, extradition is at issue for Tom. Do I have to explain to you what they do to criminals in the Sovient Union? Let alone what you face if you killed their head of state?"
All colour had drained from his counterpart's face. He understood: Tom was facing death. "Why aren't you shocked?", Slughorn put it succinctly. "Why aren't you upset? Or concerned? How can you be so unconcerned?"
"It's just that I've learned not to lose my temper in the face of interpersonal tragedy. It doesn't help anyone." Dumbledore leaned back and tapped the paper. "As for that, I'm sure the last word hasn't been spoken there."
Slughorn listened up. "What do you mean? You don't think he did it?"
"I think we should give Tom time to explain himself, that's all."
"Your word in Merlin's ear, I hope the story has a happy ending."
With that, Slughorn said goodbye. He had heard what he wanted to hear. Dumbledore looked after him, caught up in dark thoughts. Early on he had stopped longing for miracles. Tom Riddle was not a man delivered together with a happy ending guarantee.
