Chapter 4 - Attack

He had waited for hours in the interrogation room, but no one had contacted him. Perhaps it was a good omen. After all, he was not yet on his way to Azkaban. The more time passed, the harder it became to keep his dither bottled up inside. He had a lot of practice, yet his fingertips drummed against the table on which he had also laid his head.

What was taking so long?

Where was Dumbledore? He had never eagerly awaited him before, but now he was becoming increasingly impatient.

When the door opened, he was startled, but instead of the professor, Abraxas was standing on the threshold.

He had come.

Tom had already stopped hoping for it.

Abraxas nodded to him in greeting, closed the door and sat down on the chair opposite him. In one hand he had a sheet of parchment and a quill, in the other an inkwell.

"Thank you for coming."

He didn't seem to register the words, just shrugged. "You interfered when I was in legal trouble."

"Sorry," he repeated, although there was nothing to apologise for. In fact, Abraxas had to kiss his feet, for he had saved him from innocently rotting in Azkaban. But now that he was threatened with the same or worse, he did not want to insist on his unchanged opinion. He needed the Malfoy to be well-meaning.

The latter sighed theatrically. "No matter what may have happened between us. Your situation," he dragged out the word, "is serious and I can't afford any misplaced frustration. Just because I'm helping you, for the sake of our old friendship, doesn't mean I want to see you again afterwards. The trial will be a historic one, so we can happily link the names of Riddle and Malfoy one last time."

Self-interest — how typical, but also practical for Tom, it was a first step. He knew when he could increase the pressure and when not. For the moment, he had to make Abraxas feel powerful. "All right, have it your way."

"My father is also here. We have divided the tasks. He's sifting through the evidence and I'm talking to you now about appropriate defence strategies."

Tom was grateful to him. At last things were moving forward. "The very first thing you need to know is that I am innocent. No matter what it looks like, I didn't do it."

Abraxas looked at him and studied his features. The initial fright had long since faded, but something else still lingered in his eyes. Tom couldn't say exactly what, he just knew it went beyond mere interest.

"That's good," his counterpart spoke thoughtfully. "But your affirmation alone will not be enough. From what I've seen of the situation, you've got yourself entangled in two disastrous affairs."

"The murder of Stalin and the Muggle murder spree in England?"

He nodded.

Tom raised his hands to support the forcefulness of his words. "I have done neither of these things."

"But you can't exonerate yourself for either," Abraxas countered. "Damn it, Tom, you don't even have an alibi."

He couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. An alibi — what did that mean? That someone didn't have one was only a weak indication, nothing more. "Listen, I'm going to take this apart for you: the Muggle killing spree was, most likely, committed by Antonin Dolohov. The things found in my flat, with the victims' blood on them, were not mine, but his. I don't know how to prove it. Maybe he has a different dress size and we should do a fitting."

Abraxas shook his head. "That's only of any use if Dolohov has a smaller size. How did Dolohov's things get to you?"

"He stayed with me for a few days," Tom replied. "He said he had no place to stay, so I offered mine."

"Can your landlady testify to that? She has her shop downstairs, so she's able to see a lot of your life."

"I don't think so, she had contractually forbidden me to host strangers," Tom explained. "Antonin has been in and out secretly."

Abraxas grabbed his forehead in dismay. "Then we'd better drop this. This doesn't look good for you. Not only is there no trace of Dolohov, but you're showing that you don't follow the rules."

"That's different from killing someone," Tom hissed.

"The Gamot will want to get a picture of you and as your lawyer it is my job to present them with as good one as possible."

"And I'm not making it easy for you, am I?" He pursed his lips and his consternation increased when Abraxas dared to nod.

"It's not your appearance," the latter hastened to say "But Dolohov is a wanted murderer."

"Excuse me?" Tom clenched his hands. "And then the Aurors still want to blame me?"

"I hardly think they know about it. He is wanted in the Soviet Union for homicide. My father got in touch with an old business friend and that's when it came out. The Soviets hadn't put Dolohov on the international wanted list because they thought he was still in the country. The land is gigantic, there must have been a place where he could have disappeared to."

Tom swallowed. Instead, Antonin had taken flight to England and run into his arms. He felt betrayed. Not only had Antonin kept the truth from him, but he had dragged him into it and, on top of that, continued his killing spree. A disastrous mixture that should have exploded sooner rather than later. "He's gone underground now, hasn't he?"

"Did you know he was killing Muggles?"

"If I had known, I would have thrown him out immediately and reported it to the aurors," Tom lied with presence of mind. In fact, Antonin's return with bloodstained clothes had not remained hidden from him. The latter had even openly admitted to killing Muggles. He had known that Tom would not be morally offended by this and Tom had not expected his flat to ever be searched. They had been worthless Muggles — no one from the Ministry had cared. Until Stalin's death they had both been untouchable — but he couldn't explain that to Abraxas. "You don't believe me... What do you think of me?"

His counterpart looked at him pained. "Tom, quite honestly, I don't know what to make of you. You've changed since your travels, and not just on the outside."

Tom folded his arms. "I have changed? I've remained the same, the only one. Do you remember our plans? About the Knights of Walpurgis?"

Abraxas bit his lips. "Of course, but...that's what you're about? I expected more from you…more...sense of reality."

"Did you just call me childish?" he barked.

"Maybe," he returned, but he did not give the impression of certainty. Rather, he seemed to be thinking as he spoke, "If you want to achieve a social upheaval, you don't found a secret order, you go into politics. It's proper to fight with an open visor, and you know it, Tom."

"This is not the only way," he protested.

"It's the best...and it would be the easiest for you, too!" The Malfoy looked at him in shock, as if his own thoughts had shaken him to the core. "Slughorn had already seen you as a future minister – it couldn't have worked out better for you. You could have gone into the ministry — they would have taken you anywhere — and you would have worked your way up. A crowd of supporters would have followed you."

"Don't question my decisions," Tom hoisted, trying to cut him off. "You don't know all of the background and that's why it's presumptuous of you to say something like that."

"Everyone who knows you knows about it and everyone you're interesting enough for is wondering about the same thing." Abraxas was no longer intimidated. "Why didn't you do that? You must have thought of something, after all you don't do or say anything without first calculating all the outcomes. How could you not take this chance that others would kill for?"

"Can we talk about my defence strategy?", Tom interjected. "It's not going to get me anywhere now."

"That's what we're doing. The issues are interconnected, you'll see. For example, the polyjuice potion issue."

"What about this one?"

"In the files it says there are numerous guards in whose memory you appear. They can establish that you were at the crime scene at the time of the crime. The only way you're going to get out of this is if you can prove that someone with Polyjuice Potion took on your appearance."

"It must have been easy for Antonin to get the hair he needed. He had access to my flat."

Abraxas nodded. "He is known to be a murderer, that is true, but even then there is the question of whether you were not acting as his accomplice."

"I didn't know anything," Tom repeated. It had to get to the Malfoy at last. "It would be seldom stupid if I gave him my hair then, wouldn't it? It would be easier to take the hair of any Muggle you happened to run into."

His counterpart nodded. "As an opponent, you can only argue with arrogance."

"I'm better than that, you know it, Abraxas."

"But why should Dolohov blame you? Did something happen between you?"

"He's an immoral person, what else are you asking?" hissed Tom.

"You have to tell me the truth. I have a duty of confidentiality, but I can't defend you if you don't tell me what's going on."

"I'll tell you everything. Please don't insinuate that I'm hiding anything from you."

"What was between Dolohov and you?" Abraxas probed further.

"What do you mean?" Tom leaned forward. The tips of their noses could almost touch. "Think carefully about your next words."

The threat had an effect.

Abraxas winced. He breathed in and out noisily. "I don't want to ask it...otherwise it would be none of my business at all... Actually, I don't care-"

"Then don't ask!"

"But it is important for the proceedings... Did you have a...sexual relationship?" He breathed the last words. A red glow settled on his cheeks.

"How dare you?" thundered Tom. "Of course not!" He jumped up, the chair fell backwards and he hit the table.

The Malfoy made himself small. "The Gamot will wonder the same thing and -"

"Homosexual relations are punishable," Tom hissed.

"It's still better than being convicted of murder." Abraxas hid his face in his hands. He puffed, then patted his own cheeks. "All right, listen. I do not wish to pressure you, and with Merlin...I hope that with… you both...has not been the case. But it's strange that you've taken Antonin in. I know you, Tom, and you are no Samaritan."

"We got on well," Tom defended himself. "Even back at Hogwarts. I practised English with him, after all."

Abraxas nodded, he could remember that.

"But I'm not having sex with him!"

"Sorry!" His counterpart raised his hands defensively. "I guess it was too much to ask."

Too much to ask? Tom's heart skipped a beat. Malfoy still didn't believe him. What did he have to do to get him to drop the subject? He rushed back and forth, trying to get rid of his anger. An image of him choking Abraxas materialised before his inner eye. He could already hear the gasping, feel the life flowing out of the other under his hands. Angrily, forcibly, he pulled the chair up and sat down again. "Go on!"

Frozen, Abraxas looked at him. He had to force the words past his lips: "If you brew a polyjuice potion with one of your hairs, would it take on your…former appearance...o-without the...r-red ow-eyes?"

Tom was a little pleased that he seemed so impressive to his former friend. If the situation hadn't gone so wrong, he would have savoured it. But still he had to use all his strength not to go for the other's throat. "I haven't tried it." His words sounded choppy, like an axe that kept going down.

"What is this magic?"

"It doesn't matter." Tom already understood that it was important and that the Malfoy would do well to ask about it. But he also knew that he could not give him that information. It was more serious – he had to prevent himself from obtaining it at all costs. His secrets had to remain his own – and his alone.

"I need to read up on this so we can explain it in court. The Gamot will no doubt be interested. Otherwise, I see nothing for the polyjuice potion defence track and that's your best chance right now."

"I can't give you any information about that."

"Tom..."

"No."

Abraxas stared at him, blinked several times and began again: "I'm sorry about before. It's my job to ask questions. At least tell me: is it a permanent spell or can it be reversed?"

"I said I'm not talking about it."

His counterpart bit his lips. "I can't believe you don't understand the seriousness of the situation. They may extradite you and beyond the border your chances of survival are not good."

"I am aware of that," Tom interrupted him. "It's not easy for me, but I've thought it through."

"You must have miscalculated," snapped Abraxas. "I realise this is a dark curse. After your behaviour just now..." He shook his head passionately. "Only a dark curse can cause such damage."

Tom growled when Abraxas called his change harm, but he was too smart to protest. It would only lead Abraxas further down the rabbit hole. His survival, contrary to what the Malfoy thought, did not depend on it after all. He was immortal. While he had no intention of putting it to the test so soon – for he did not know what would happen should his body be destroyed – but there was no reason to fear his demise. However, should it come out that he had made Horcruxes, an interminable stay in Azkaban awaited him, if not the Dementor's kiss. He had murdered for it — there would be no denying it.

"Tom, I'm telling you for the last time — the burden of proof is overwhelming against you." Abraxas growled at the top of his lungs. Tom had never seen the usually reserved Malfoy so angry. "And it's not so much the circumstantial evidence, but your cursed silence. You're hiding everything you can. Dolohov and you? - You look at me like you want to kill me. This spell that has disfigured you ... you simply refuse."

Tom sighed. "Abraxas, I'm sorry." He had to mend fences somehow, even though he would much rather have jumped at his counterpart, foaming at the mouth.

"No, I'm sorry," Abraxas stood up. "My family would risk their reputation by defending you. We won't gain anything financially, and with our notoriety, a disastrous trial would be a press grab."

"I can't tell you anything. It's better this way, trust me!"

"I can't trust you, Tom…I wish I could." Abraxas gathered up his things. "When I think back, I see that we parted ways a long time ago. I just didn't want to see it. You've become a terror and I don't know you anymore."

He had never known him! Tom cursed inwardly. "Abraxas, don't be so pessimistic!"

"I just can't tell what's going on in your head anymore." Malfoy pressed his lips together. Was there a tear glistening in his eye? "But I'm afraid it's not good. I can't help you...neither with the Knights of Walpurgis, nor in these proceedings. Farewell and good luck, you could use it."

"Abraxas..." Tom stared after his former friend. His head was empty; for the very first time there was nothing he could hold on to.

Abraxas left. He turned around in the doorway. "Dumbledore is here, by the way, waiting. He let me go first. You had asked for him, he had told me."

Tom heard the words, but it took him a while to process them.

"Honestly, Tom... Dumbledore?" Malfoy furrowed his eyebrows. "You could never stand each other and now you're asking for him? I really don't understand you anymore."

"It's a long story," Tom said. Maybe this way he could draw Abraxas back to him by telling him about his adventures with Dumbledore. "I can-" he began, but there was already no one listening to him.

The door slammed shut.

oOo

"Oh, Mr. Malfoy, I wasn't expecting to see you here," Dumbledore greeted the man. "I should have guessed, I've just met your son."

Malfoy nodded sublimely. "I beg you, call me Armand."

"Thank you, but I prefer to remain formal in public settings such as these, Mr Malfoy." He didn't want to hear his first name out of the mouth of this unabashed Malfoy. The latter understood the refusal and turned back to the papers in front of him. Dumbledore stepped closer and looked over his shoulder.

"Excuse me," he folded the files shut and took a step to the side. "This is confidential information. I can't just shove it under your nose."

Dumbledore saw Malfoy look at him askance. "And how is it that you have insight into this? Did Tom Riddle hire you to defend him?"

His counterpart swallowed and made a caught expression.

"So no. Then why are you holding this in your hands?" With a certain gesture, he slowly raised his arms and took the file from his grasp.

Perplexed as Armand was, he let it happen. Only at the last second did he come to his senses and hold on to the piece he had left, as if his life depended on it. "With respect, I have my connections," he huffed. "Mr McGrath gave me express permission. As far as I know, you can't say the same for yourself. Therefore, it is now up to me to study the gathered evidence. If you would please leave me in peace."

The passive-aggressive behaviour of Malfoy was amusing, precisely because Armand was acting like a cock. He shook his head, lost in thought, but did not loosen his hands. This was not the clientele he liked to surround himself with. The Lestranges were more sedate, just as influential and pretentious, but at least accommodatingly friendly in their buttoned-up way. With Armand he felt nothing but coldness; Abraxas again was still developing. Perhaps one day all this wealth would go to his head too. He didn't understand why Tom liked to hang out with them – why he was so squinty-eyed about Abraxas. "Mr McGrath!" he called across the room.

The Auror was standing with one of his subordinates discussing something. His head snapped around and instantly Dumbledore had all his attention.

"Would you kindly allow me to take a look at the Riddle file?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, two if you like. Just don't tell my supervisor."

"You have my word."

With that, McGrath turned away again.

"It looks like we now have the same powers," Dumbledore concluded. Malfoy looked sourly at him. Unlike Tom, he could not hide his disappointed – perhaps upset – feelings behind a mask of aloofness. Yet Armand was also a talented actor. Only when Dumbledore was confronted with liars like him – whose appearance was more like a play than anything else – did he ever notice how gifted the young Riddle really was. Every emotion he could coax out of Tom was a triumphant stage victory. He was in control of the millimetre. He had perfected it – to the extent that most people didn't even recognise his mask as such anymore and mistook it for goodness of heart.

"Here, take it!" He left it entirely to him. "I had already made up my mind anyway." Armand was about to disappear.

"Your son, however, not yet," Dumbledore stopped him.

"That's right, Abraxas is still talking to him..." He paused on the spot.

"So you're not going to supervise the case?"

"You have a clear path, Mr Dumbledore," Armand confirmed. "Run riot, do what you can't help doing."

"Abraxas will be disappointed to hear that. Tom and he were good friends at Hogwarts."

Unmoved, Armand looked past him. "The emphasis is on 'were'. It is no more."

"Still, he seems to want to help him."

Malfoy growled. "He's still a bit too emotional. Tell me, how is it that you want to stand up for him? Don't get me wrong, your commitment is honourable, but Riddle is guilty. The evidence against him is overwhelming. Take a look. There's not much you can do about it except keep an eye on him to make sure he's not unduly punished. But do you want that? Riddle is a murderer, that's pretty clear – Stalin, the Muggle women – just look at him. You can see the marks of dark magic on his face. That's more than one experiment gone wrong."

"I wouldn't assume that so innocently," Dumbledore interjected.

Armand looked amused, raising his eyebrows, and continued, "Then there's his Muggle origins – and a few years ago he turned down job offers from the Ministry to work at Borgin & Burke's. Can you imagine?" He laughed. "He doesn't seem the brightest and how he got that terrific Hogwarts degree remains beyond me. Perhaps you should re-examine your school system."

"Thank you for pointing out these inspirations to me without taking a breath," Dumbledore remarked snappishly. "One would think you would not be interested in your own question."

"Yes, yes… Why do you want to defend Riddle?" He leaned forward towards Dumbledore.

He remained steadfast. He could not be intimidated so easily. Tom, of all people, had pulled out quite different stops. "Tom Riddle may be an unconventional scoundrel to you, but he is a wizard without equal. Talent and intelligence go hand in hand. I, blessed with a comprehensive grasp, recognise that; if you don't, I'm sorry."

"What are you trying to tell me?" Armand tried to smile, but the attempt failed miserably. "Or do you want to insult me?"

"Not at all," Dumbledore replied. "To explain foolproof once more, Tom is far too clever to leave such clear evidence. Convicting him of murder would have to be infinitely more difficult."

"You might wish that – you see things that are non-existent in the boy. He is not an overly clever wizard, his choices have proven that after all." Armand remained stubborn. "You shouldn't extrapolate from yourself to him. Although I hate to say it now, your sympathy for Riddle – wherever it comes from – is clouding your senses. Surely you would have acted more wisely in his place."

Footsteps approached and an enraged Abraxas stomped out of the interrogation room.

"It's time," Armand said goodbye.

"Just a moment," Dumbledore requested.

Malfoy followed his request and turned around one last time. "I'm listening."

"I don't like Riddle, I find him disturbing – that's an understatement. He just shouldn't be sent to Azkaban or suffer worse for a crime he didn't commit. I owe that to our legal system."

"Disturbing?" asked Armand. "Is that what you call his mug?"

"He is dangerous – you would do well to keep your son away from him. Let this be a warning."

"First you speak in high tones and now this?"

"Tom requires it."

"You are beyond me, Mr Dumbledore."

"Tom is a good man, he's just lost his way."

"And it's your job to guide him back? You care about him instead of his fellow man?"

"No one is immune from such mistakes."

Armand Malfoy shook his head vehemently. "Your indulgence and do-gooderism in all honour, Mr Dumbledore, but Riddle uses dark magic. That is not a bad thing per se: many have tried their hand at dark curses, it has that fascination. But as I see it, his use goes far beyond a youthful interest. Whatever Riddle did, it was more than a secret hobby, it must have been destructive... And he did it to himself! His demeanour shows no remorse! Tell me, since you think you know him so well, why is he like this?"

"I don't know."

"Wanting to help Riddle is noble, but a waste of time. He who disfigures himself with dark spells will never change. He lacks all insight. He is and remains of low birth, intelligence and talent or not; he was not socialised in the magical world. The rough customs of the Muggles are deeply ingrained in him, his nature is corrupt. Even an education at Hogwarts, however good it may be, cannot cover this up. I will not bring shame to the Malfoy name and defend him. Have a good day!"

With these words, he collected Abraxas, who had watched the last exchange with a regretful expression, and disappeared from the Auror Centre.

Tom had faults – big ones, admittedly, and he could be a danger to those around him. Dumbledore sighed. Not only that, Tom was a threat to himself. But it wasn't too late, he just had to realise it – realise his disaster and give room for change. Dumbledore didn't want to regret something again. Not again did he want to have failed to help, even though he saw the opportunity. Not again did he want to lose a talented wizard to his inner demons.

"I am in conversation with Mr. Riddle," he informed McGrath and collected the file. The latter registered it in passing. "I will take over his defence from now on."

McGrath stuck out a raised thumb.

Dumbledore went into the interrogation room.

It took a lot to pursue one's desires as relentlessly as Tom did, despite all the torment that Dumbledore suspected existed. Despite all the stones in his path, he did not cower, but strove forward full of drive. Even if the goal was a disaster in the guise of a refuge, Dumbledore could not help but admire his unprecedented energy. He thought a lot of Tom. Only he couldn't tell him. Then he would be another fly caught in the sticky web of his acting.