Chapter 3 - Arrest

"What took you so long? Shouldn't someone be talking to me?" asked Tom, upset, when someone finally entered the interrogation room. "So we can clear up this misunderstanding?"

"Good afternoon, Mr Riddle," he was greeted by Auror McGrath.

"McGrath, tell me this is a joke, a bloody bad one!"

His counterpart shook his head. "We don't make joke arrests. You are a defendant in a criminal case and if I may be honest with you-"

"You are forbidden to lie to me," Tom cut him off.

McGrath looked irritated, swallowed and continued, "The evidence against you doesn't look good... – Well, I mean, it looks good to us. You should start looking for an experienced lawyer, if I may advise you to do so."

Tom grumbled. "Not only may you, you are obliged to advise me of my right to appoint a lawyer. If you hadn't done that, this could have been quite difficult for you."

"How fortunate that I did then." He smiled sweetly and opened the file in front of him. "Shall we start the questioning or do you insist on a lawyer?"

Triumphantly, Tom leaned back and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I'm not making a sound until my lawyer comes and explains the situation to me."

The Auror sighed. "That makes you look suspicious, be aware of that. I don't know if you really want to give that appearance."

Tom was not impressed by such cheap tricks. He was accused of the murder of Josef Stalin – oh, Merlin – of course he had expected the Aurors to immediately pull out all the stops. But he was too intelligent to let them extort a confession from him. "I'm not sure if you're even allowed to do that," he said in a cool voice. "So get me a lawyer."

"Who can I ask for you?"

A little amused, he watched McGrath give up. That was how he liked his fellow men – grovelling and aware that he was far above them. His glee was dampened when his counterpart dared to open his mouth and add something.

"Who can you afford?"

Tom had no money to spare. It showed in his clothes, which he wore far too long for social taste. Not without reason he lived in Knockturn Alley – in a small, run-down flat – and worked in a warehouse to pay the rent. He had no savings, so he would not be able to pay a person to deal with the aurors in his place. However, he wanted to buy a little time. "Inform Abraxas Malfoy... please." Bile came up and he had to choke it down. "And bring me a breakdown of the evidence against me!"

oOo

It was an hour — if not several, but after one he had lost track of time — before the door to the interrogation room opened again. With a leaden face, McGrath stepped inside... — unaccompanied. Tom cursed under his breath.

"We have informed Mr Abraxas Malfoy," McGrath spoke. "But he has declined, as has his father. I'm sorry that your involvement in the Avery case reflects so badly on you, but I'm afraid there's nothing I can do about that either."

Abraxas had left him for good. "Then I need another lawyer," Tom barked. Inwardly he prayed that someone would take his case pro bono. Representing a falsely accused man – and then for murdering Stalin! – promised a lot of prestige. Surely someone would be found quickly.

"We've already notified them too... – after all, there aren't that many options in little magical England. So far, no one has reported back."

He could rarely feel his heartbeat as clearly as it was at that moment. It pounded against his ribcage like a boxer punching his opponent. His breath came in jerks, he exhaled but hardly inhaled. Tom propped his head on his hands. His hair fell in front of his eyes, hiding his crisis from the outside world. He forced himself to navigate his breaths, counting to five before exhaling again. When he was halfway calmed, he lifted his gaze again. McGrath looked at him pityingly. Tom would have preferred to wrap his hands around his neck and crush his larynx. The rattling promised to be meditative.

"What evidence have you got against me?" he demanded to know.

McGrath, who had only been standing in the doorway, closed it behind him and settled himself in a chair. "Then you agree to be questioned?"

Tom nodded.

"You waive the presence of counsel?"

"Temporarily!"

His counterpart flipped open the file he had brought with him. "We'll start with a simple question: Where were you on 28 February 1953?"

Tom hesitated and put his next words carefully. "Not in the Soviet Union... – that's really all that matters, isn't it?"

"I beg you," McGrath said, his eyebrows shifting up. "You're accused of killing a foreign head of state! The Soviets have sent us copies of the evidence and filed an extradition request! After the investigation, you will be brought before the Gamot. He will decide on a rendition."

"Surely they won't extradite an English citizen... — surely not to the Soviet Union with its inhumane gulags and secret trials!" Tom leaned far over the table so that the tip of his nose almost collided with the Auror's.

The latter tilted his head. "The Soviet government wizards have bared their teeth. They want you badly and have threatened serious consequences. I don't know how things are in the Muggle world, but some have already come out in favour of extradition so as not to jeopardise transnational relations."

"Muggle world?" groaned Tom. "How did you get to the Muggle world?"

"Isn't that where you're from?" asked McGrath whimsically. "You're Muggle-born, aren't you?"

"No! ... – half-blood. I'm a half-blood."

Wrinkles formed on his counterpart's face and Tom knew he didn't quite believe him. "No witch or wizard but you is called Riddle."

"My Muggle father's name was Riddle and my mother was a witch," Tom hissed. "I don't see why I should have to justify myself on that account."

"It was just an observation. I didn't mean to imply that you were lying." He raised his hands defensively. For a few seconds they looked at each other, then McGrath continued, "Then, now tell me where you were on 28 February? I spoke to Mrs Gardener and she informed us that you were not working that day."

Tom swallowed. "I had taken the day off and was travelling around... – in England."

"It's quite a coincidence that you took leave on the day of the crime, of all days. Did you talk to anyone that day? That you have an alibi for at least part of the day?"

He shook his head. "I didn't talk to anyone that day. Maybe someone saw me, but I can't name a person."

McGrath scowled at him. "Where were you?"

"Does it matter?"

"You have no alibi, if you won't even name where you were in England, it will be impossible to trace your whereabouts and gather exculpatory evidence if necessary. I'm sure you know we're supposed to investigate in all directions, including exonerating a suspect."

He clenched his hands. "It would lead nowhere, I'm sure. Leave it as it is."

"You're not in a good light at the moment, I don't need to tell you that." McGrath's eyes had taken on the glint of a truffle pig. "We searched your flat and what we found leads us to believe that you are a serial killer. Even if you didn't murder Stalin, the noose around your neck is tightening."

Tom threw his head back and pressed his hands to his eyes. They had found it! He knew what this was all about, but it was becoming impossible for him to explain. No one would believe him and he had no proof at hand. "It's not what it looks like." The phrase of any criminal caught red-handed. It was the truth! There were no words that could express it better!

"It looks like you are responsible for a series of rapes and murders!", McGrath roared at him. "We found bloody clothes and the blood came from Muggle victims. Explain yourself! The papers already have it in their headlines – it's probably why you can't find a lawyer. It's oil on the fire of those who want to extradite you."

His heart was beating as rapidly as if it were on the run. Tom tried to withstand his counterpart's gaze, but as he looked into the accusing eyes, the small room began to spin. He had to hold on to the chair to keep from falling forward while sitting. All strength seemed to be sucked out of his body. He just wanted to topple forward and press his face and arms against the cool surface of the table.

"Stay calm," McGrath's voice reached his ear. "Breathe slowly."

Between each breath he began counting to five, again. "It... – is... – not… – mine."

"Take your time," he urged. "It won't do any good if you choke now."

He squinted his eyes and admonished himself again. When he opened them, McGrath handed him a glass. He downed the water, not realising until that moment that he had been terribly thirsty. Boiling hot, he remembered, "I still need my insulin."

"You need what?"

"Insulin. I have to inject it every morning and afternoon. It's incredibly important."

"Inject?"

"Yes," he hoisted. What was there not to understand about that simple sentence?

"I can't let you have a syringe to... – whatever you want to do."

"It's a medical condition," Tom insisted. He leaned across the table. True, he was still dizzy and getting up would make him topple over to one side, but he was about to rip the Auror's head off. "You have to do it. I have diabetes... – a Muggle disease. Do your research for all I care, but do your job!"

McGrath seemed unconvinced. "Let's get on with the questioning first and then I'll see what I can do, shall we?"

Tom gritted his teeth. He saw himself jumping up and knocking the table over. He saw himself screaming and lashing out at the Auror. He would grab his wand and hurl a death curse at him. It wouldn't be the first time he had done that.

His hand pressed against the place where he usually kept his favourite weapon. It grasped nothing. His wand had been taken from him. He couldn't do magic. If he attacked McGrath, ten Aurors would come rushing in and tear him apart. It would be carnage. Sighing, he stroked the tangled hair from his face. Reality had caught up with him.

"Let's do this," he spoke in a breathless voice. "The blood-soaked clothes you found... – They are not mine. A friend of mine stayed with me for a while because he had no roof over his head. When I found the blood-stained trousers and shirts, I confronted him and he left."

The Auror pressed his lips together into a thin line. "How convenient..."

"It's the truth!"

"Then I need some more information," he said.

He bit the insides of his cheeks. McGrath eyed him meticulously, as if trying to make a drawing of him. "His name is Antonin Dolohov. I was looking for him on 28 February; we had our altercation on 27 February. He came home in the evening with bloodstained clothes and I asked what had happened. He said he had been involved in an accident and had given first aid, but that seemed implausible to me. He didn't give me a satisfactory answer when I asked, but became aggressive. At some point he just left and the next day, when I hadn't heard from him over the night, I got worried. So I went looking for him."

McGrath was a bad actor. His unwillingness to believe him was written all over his face.

Tom bit his lower lip. He had indeed told the Auror a fairy tale, but it had a kernel of truth. That was what mattered. He neither had killed the Muggles nor Stalin and he was pretty sure Antonin was responsible for the killing spree. He was annoyed that he hadn't noticed sooner what a sloppy murderer Dolohov was. As the Knights' sole supporter, Tom had offered him shelter, in the mistaken belief that he could control Antonin's murderous lust. Everything would have gone smoothly had he not killed Muggles indiscriminately or at least given some thought to concealing his perpetration. The impulsiveness with which Antonin committed his deeds was madness compared to Tom's cunning ways. Under no circumstances did Tom want to atone for the other.

"If you are going to tell me such an incredible story, you should provide evidence," the Auror said. "And it should be some that we can verify. Speak and preferably, speak watertight. Or would you rather wait a while and see if you can get hold of a lawyer?"

His fingers clenched around the back of the chair. "I don't need time, but I do need the insulin. Didn't you seize it when you searched the flat?"

"I need to check," McGrath rebuffed. "Again, you're telling me Antonin Dolohov is probably a murderer and you were looking for him on 28 February? Even though no one can testify to that?"

"Yes..."

The auror gasped. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you what I think of that statement."

"No, but you can ask the Lestranges about Antonin Dolohov. They can confirm that Dolohov killed and dissected a house-elf during his stay there, about a fortnight ago." Tom folded his arms and crossed his legs.

McGrath looked away in disgust and puffed out his cheeks. "We will... – I do not envy the colleague who will have to do that."

"Have you checked my wand for the last spells I cast?" he urged.

"Of course," he said curtly. "One of my staff is sitting at it and will trace it for the last few weeks."

"Then you will have determined that at the time of the Muggle murders, I did not cast a spell that could injure any human being."

His counterpart narrowed his eyes.

"I beg your pardon? Are you trying to show me otherwise?" hoisted Tom. "I know what spells I have cast, or rather what spells I have not cast."

"You cast a powerful paralysis spell."

Like a lightning bolt, Tom was struck by the memory. He thundered down on the table. "That doesn't mean anything!"

Startled, the Auror jerked back. "It's not exactly an everyday spell."

"Prove to me that I killed someone with this!" He hadn't. It was impossible for McGrath to prove otherwise. "You have to prove my guilt, I do not have to prove my innocence." Not wanting to add a disrespectful, "Do your job," he bit his lower lip.

McGrath sighed. He couldn't! It was only a matter of time before the Auror would have to realise that he had nothing on Tom.

"Let's get on with it," Tom demanded. "Stalin... – I read he was killed with a magic poison. The bloody clothes you found therefore lead to nowhere after all."

His counterpart nodded. "You're right about that, but that's not the evidence against you in this case either."

"So you find me guilty just because I don't have an alibi?" Tom laughed harshly. "You can't be serious."

"You're the one telling lies here," McGrath growled. "Don't protest, the Soviets sent us this." From the file he took out a piece of paper and pushed it towards Tom. "This is a plane ticket. February 27, 7:35 p.m. to Moscow, made out to Tom Riddle. You lied, you were in the Soviet Union."

Down to the last detail Tom looked at the document. "It must be a forgery!"

"It's not," the Auror denied. "We've checked it. It's genuine, someone flew to Moscow under the name Tom Riddle."

"It wasn't me, someone must have forged my name," he groaned. "I found something similar yesterday when I tried it in Azkaban. Someone had forged my signature in the visitors' book. Somebody is trying to frame me."

"Why would anyone do that?" asked McGrath. "Do you have any enemies?"

Tom shook his head. He could think of no one who might have been in a position to want so. "I'm a wizard. Why would I get on a plane?"

His counterpart shrugged. "It's a long distance. Many magicians travel such distances with stops in between, sometimes resting before they continue their journey. So why wouldn't you board a plane? Being of Muggle origin, you are more familiar with such things than the average wizard."

"I do no such things."

His counterpart raised his eyebrows. "You did travel through the Soviet Union, didn't you? Before all this? You know a bit about the country, don't you?"

"Still, I didn't kill Stalin," Tom hissed. "How do you imagine that, anyway? I just walked in there, poisoned him and then left?"

"Something like that, actually," the Auror said bitterly, glancing down at his notepad. "But for the record: How did you wander around the Soviet Union during your travels? Are you telling me that as a wizard with a Muggle background, you never took advantage of Muggle transport? You don't have a lot of sickles, if you don't mind me saying so. Therefore, Floo powder and Portkeys are out of the question for you, and apparating to unfamiliar areas is dangerous."

Between clenched teeth, Tom groaned, "Of course, I've taken the train from time to time." He hit the table again. There was a bang and his hand tingled from the impact. "But that doesn't matter! All you have is circumstantial evidence! I'll be out of here in no time!"

McGrath slammed the file shut and in the same motion he disappeared from the room. "I'll be right back." Not a minute later, he stepped back into the room, having brought a Pensieve with him. With a gesture heavy with meaning, he placed it on the table, right in front of Tom's nose, as if to taunt him. "Now that we have made our way here, we can look together at the most powerful evidence against you. This is the memoirs of Stalin's guards."

With an uneasy feeling, Tom looked at the grey, flat stone bowl in front of him, in which silver threads made their circles against a black background. With a scratch in his voice, he said, "Let's get this over with." He emptied a glass, but the hoarseness did not disappear.

He dipped into the black liquid. McGrath followed.

oOo

At first he found himself in complete darkness and thought it didn't work. That's about how he imagined life after death... – a yawning void of infinite proportions, like being trapped inside a black hole.

He didn't have to think about it for long before a lamp ignited. In the dim electric light outside, he could make out the outline of a house. Someone cleared their throat and he whirled around. At the edge of the illuminated area, in front of the huge mouth of darkness, McGrath stood tapping the formless ground impatiently with the tip of his foot. Without words, only with a curt nod, he pointed past Tom. Tom followed the gesture and turned around again.

Into his field of vision came a guard leaning against the wall of the house, standing at his post under the electric light. Only on second glance did Tom realise that next to him was a dark door, barely distinguishable from the background, which he was guarding.

Studying his surroundings, he took a step forward. No tapping sounded from his feet. He could move silently through the memory. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed McGrath move to stand beside him. He felt his eyes burning into the back of his neck.

Footsteps… They grew louder.

The guard pushed himself off the wall in surprise and looked to his right and left. Tom, on the other hand, was not surprised, it was clear that something was going to happen. But what he then saw sent him into a state of shock.

The visitor turned the corner and for the first time Riddle could see himself from the outside.

It was a cliché to be frightened of oneself on such an occasion. One was shocked by the perchiness one embodied or by one's current behaviour. Sometimes it even went so far as to be seized by fear of oneself – though one did not have to be outside oneself for this to happen.

Tom, however, felt none of the same. Neither did he tremble with fear, nor did he notice the extraordinary grace that had once dwelt within him. He looked at himself and thought nothing, neither "This is me?" nor a "This is me!" flashed through his mind. For, unlike Dumbledore, he had not lost himself in vanity. Unlike the average person, he knew what to expect... – and he never disappointed himself. He had never become a stranger to himself, but he had never warmed to himself either. Like everyone else in his life, he was just a pawn.

Standing between him and the guard was a Tom Riddle as he had looked just a few years ago. There was the dark hair, the strong contact with the skin that looked aristocratically pale, not sickly pale. The dark doe eyes, without a red gleam. The all-too-symmetrical features, without inhuman distortion. The prominent chin that Dumbledore had missed. If you were to hold the sight like that and turn time forward a little, you would get the image of his father. Down to the last root of his hair, he resembled Tom Riddle senior.

"Freeze!" the guard shouted. "Who are you?"

Silently, Tom Riddle pulled out an identity card and held it under his counterpart's nose.

The guard nodded and let him pass.

His copy disappeared inside the house.

Tom turned to McGrath. "What is this supposed to prove?"

"It proves you were at the crime scene at the time of the crime."

"Does it?" he asked with a sneer. "Surely it's obvious that it wasn't me. Open your eyes, I beg you, and you'll see what I look like. That was not me. That person was far too..."

"Beautiful?" suggested McGrath impassively.

"Fine by me," Tom grumbled. He had made something of beauty. "He was far too beautiful."

"You looked like that once, even not so long ago."

"But I look different now. Even quite theoretically, if I wanted to disguise myself, why should I disguise myself as my younger self. It doesn't make any sense."

McGrath shrugged. "I don't know what you were thinking. Actually, I was hoping you could explain it to me. Maybe you've disguised yourself now and shown your real face in this memory?"

Tom laughed. "That's absurd. You think I would make this... – change to confuse you..." he searched for the right word, "To deceive? It doesn't fit at all corners."

The Auror was persistently silent, so Tom continued, "Someone wants to tie this murder to my broom, I've told you that before. The person must have used a polyjuice potion or something similar."

They looked at each other, but no reaction could be elicited from McGrath.

"Have you thought of a polyjuice potion?" Tom repeated his theory.

"Wait," McGrath finally replied. "And watch yourself when you come back out."

"That's not me," he protested, but did as he was told.

After a while, Tom Riddle stepped out again, nodded to the guard and made his way home. He disappeared into nothingness. In the seconds he was visible, Tom eyed him from head to toe. "He had no luggage with him."

"He didn't have a vial of Polyjuice Potion with him."

"But he was only in there half an hour, too," Tom interjected. "He didn't need it then."

"I don't think he factored that in. I think if it was actually a shapeshifter, he would have had luggage and a supply of polyjuice drinks with him." McGrath waved him off and it meant it was time to go.

Together they reappeared.

"We have half a dozen of such memories. You have also been noticed inside the house. Maybe you'd better confess and try to make a deal."

Flattened, Tom dropped into his chair. His back slammed against the backrest, but he did not feel the pain. "Why would I make a plan to kill Stalin and then also decide to do it basically undisguised?" He bit his lips. Slowly it became clear that he could talk all he wanted. McGrath would not doubt his guilt. The circumstantial evidence at hand was too powerful, and no other sorcerer seemed to come into consideration.

"I'll tell you," the Auror began in a powerful voice. "You thought you wouldn't be caught. The magical poison you used is hard to pin down, and to the outside world it looks like he died of a stroke." McGrath gathered his notes and slips of paper. "You're full of yourself. You thought your plan was so good that everyone would take the circumstances for granted and not investigate further."

"That's nonsense!" echoed Tom. "You might think that if you killed your crazy uncle or an old, lonely woman. But not with a foreign head of state."

"You were in the Soviet Union and knew about the political situation. I hear there are quite a few Soviet politicians who welcome Stalin's death."

Tom rubbed his chin. His counterpart was bogged down and no matter what he did, he could not pull him out of the morass of false conclusions. "What was that ID my double had shown the guard?"

McGrath looked at him urgently, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly upwards as if to say 'You know very well.'

"From the NKVD."

"The secret service?" echoed Tom.

"Exactly!"

He scratched his head. It was getting more and more entangled. "I don't have any motive at all."

"We'll find out!"

Tom puffed. "That's what I want to see. Don't be afraid to apologise when you realise the nonsense you're spouting right now."

The Auror tucked his material under his arm and stood up.

"Can I have my insulin shot now?" called Tom after him. "I need it or I might go into a sugar shock. I'm sure you don't want that."

In the doorway McGrath stopped and suddenly became hesitant. "I'll have to look into this disease you say you have. And see where this syringe is."

"It's in a metal case."

"I'll let you know when I know more."

For a long time he had shied away from it, telling himself that it didn't have to be. He would be able to do it on his own. But now he knew of no other way he could go. "Get Dumbledore."

"Who?" A question of perplexity.

"Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster," Tom hissed. "He can help you."

And maybe him, too.

McGrath nodded and moved away.

Tom rested his head on the table, hands flat beside it. He was surrounded by nothing but idiots. How on earth had he got himself into such a hopeless situation?

Some one of these fools, he answered himself, was a misunderstood genius.