Checkmate

IV.

31 December 1956

Tom Riddle was in his element. A cluster of listeners had gathered around him, especially his followers formed a tight circle. He waved his glass in brilliant gestures. The drink almost spilled over, but no one saw the splashes, for their eyes were all glued to his lips.

"The purity of the blood is threatened...and with it so much more. It's not about impeccable pedigrees, they only exist on paper anyway." He paused for effect, looking around to see if everyone was still with him. They absorbed his words like newborns absorb their mother's milk. "It's about the British magical society's position in the world. We don't go along with significant change unless we say goodbye to the Statute of secrecy. This is a farce anyway – An agreement of secrecy? Please! An agreement is made between two people. For the wizards, the Minister of Magic appeared at the time, but tell me who signed the so-called agreement for the Muggles? The Muggles do not know of our existence – how can you sign an agreement? I tell you how: You don't."

Heads bobbed in time with the words. It was like a lullaby, lulling the upset pureblood. Tom had them right where he wanted them. In his web

...wrapped in bitter half-truths and sweet lies. They looked at him, but they did not look at what he was telling them. Rather, their eyes stroked his face and they licked their lips. Women and men alike, he could not tell the difference. It did not bother him. At the end of the day, they did exactly what he wanted.

"You ask a lot of questions, Tom, pretending to know the answers."

Dumbledore parted the crowd as Moses parted the sea. From the multitude of seduced faces, the Headmaster peeled out. "Your arguments are nothing but a petitio principii."

"Don't speak Latin to me, Dumbledore," Tom growled. He would prefer it even more if Dumbledore didn't speak to him at all.

"A circular argument, Tom. You're arguing in circles."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"He's right."

"Dumbledore is a wise man."

"I'd rather believe in Dumbledore than in that runaway."

Tom growled. This could not be true! Just a moment ago they had hung on his lips and had been ready to receive his words as truth. Now they were writing him off as a liar – or worse – questioning him.

"Listen. The Muggles are increasingly taking over on the continent. The influence of the wizards on geopolitics is being pushed back. As a result, there have been two world wars-"

"Stop it," he was interrupted. "You Muggle lover!"

More bystanders nodded.

"I am far from being a Muggle friend," Tom countered, but no one moved their head. "I would even say I'm Muggle-critical."

"You can only be critical of a group when you belong to it." Dumbledore! He was enjoying Tom's troubles. One day he would nail his coffin shut! That would be a treat.

"Are you one of them?" a man shouted.

"What?"

"A Muggle friend?"

"I argue for an occupation of Muggle culture all the time."

Again a whispering grew among the spectators.

Tom sighed. "I want to subdue the Muggles."

Silence fell suddenly. The wizards stood around him, frozen into statues, and regarded him with uncomprehending looks.

"How can you even think of such a thing?" asked an older man.

"Inhuman!" whispered another.

"You of all people!"

"What do you mean?" barked Tom. The first moved away from the cluster and more took their cue. "Why me?"

"You...You are not pure-blooded...They are only here at the request of the host and...no venerable family strengthens your back. You are only a half-breed, if rumours are to be believed." The next turned away. "And then you shout such words."

"I didn't shout."

Before he knew it, he was standing there all alone. The cluster had dispersed. Only his Death Eaters stood there, like the tin soldiers he had moulded them into. "Never mind, my lord," Abraxas said. "It's not directed at you. They always say things like that."

"That's just the problem." Tom was beside himself.

"Be patient."

He stood on the edge of a precipice, ready to plunge completely into anger. "You always say that."

"I mean it too. If you'll excuse me, my father is beckoning me to join him." Abraxas disappeared into the confusion of the ballroom.

"It's a great party, isn't it?", Selwyn resumed the thread of conversation. Unnecessarily.

"The Malfoys have outdone themselves once again." In glitz and glamour. Pomp and prestige. Tom hated it.

"If you'll excuse me." His feet carried him into the distance before he realised he was moving. They carried him across the polished marble tiles that reflected the magnificent chandeliers. Past the exquisite buffet where Dumbledore was haranguing the next guest and ruining their evening. Past the Malfoys who seemed to stand together in trust and were constantly congratulated for the successful celebration. His feet carried him across the dance floor where couples were gyrating and some women were twisting their necks at him. The Malfoys glanced after him. Dumbledore's gaze bored into his back.

He ignored them all.

At the bar, he filled his glass of whiskey, almost to the brim, for he had no intention of going out among the people again so soon. Not until he had a plan to get back at Dumbledore. That was what he wanted. The only thing that could make this failed evening a little sweeter. He had been called a Muggle friend... Just not all cups in the cupboard...er, cauldrons on the shelf, some people had.

He was on his way out to the sumptuous roof terrace, where he would take a few deep breaths and clear his head. Instead, he first took a big swig of the whiskey. It burned in his throat, a soothing sensation. "Let me through, please," he said to a pathetic figure sitting outside the patio door, his back against the floor-to-ceiling window sash. Dark hair fell in front of his face. Tom could not tell whether the man was asleep or unconscious.

Undefinable muttering came from below. He tapped him with the toe of his shoe, which the man acknowledged with a grumble. "Tom..."

His heart skipped a beat when he recognised the drunken heap of misery as Antonin Dolohov. As always, a vast amount of alcohol had flowed at Malfoy's celebration, there was hardly anyone who remained sober. So it was no wonder that no one noticed the two of them at the terrace. The rest of the oh-so-fine company had enough to do with keeping on their feet or topping up their drinks.

"Come up," he grumbled and pulled him up.

Antonin's arms wrapped around his neck and then he hung there like a sack of potatoes. Tom couldn't help but grab him and drag him along. But where to? He decided to put his plan into action nonetheless. The fresh night air would do them both good. On his way out, he glanced once more at the oversized golden clock hanging in the ballroom. It was twenty-three o'clock, an hour before midnight. He sighed. Only one more hour, then he had put this terrible day behind him.

With each step he heaved Antonin along, progress became more difficult. Panting, he let go of him when they finally reached the terrace railing. It was actually only a few steps, but still the way seemed like half an eternity.

Antonin's hands reached up for the railing and he leaned against it. Tom sped after him, worried he might fall off. It was only up to his belly button. His counterpart closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Very good, he could do that on his own. Then he was no longer needed.

Tiptoeing, not to attract any attention, he wanted to steal away. He was not a nurse after all.

"Stay," Antonin murmured and Tom's legs paused.

Effortlessly friendly, he asked, "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

His counterpart shook his head. "Just stay with me."

"Do you want me to notify someone?"

"Please don't."

Tom went back and leaned against the terrace railing. His arm brushed Antonin's and he could see Antonin's hair stand up at the point of contact. He himself was also seized by a shudder. "Where is your cloak? Shall I get your coat from the wardrobe?"

"I don't know...I don't even know if I came with a coat."

"Do you want my coat?" he heard himself ask. "I just have to go for a moment."

"No, stay here."

Indecisively, he paused. There was nothing he could do. He was superfluous. In turn, Antonin was also a millstone around his neck. "You shouldn't have drunk so much."

"I think I've been poisoned."

Tom snorted.

"Nice pin," said Antonin. "Where did you get it? It looks expensive."

His gaze wandered down to his chest. There, in the black fabric, was a dainty golden pin set with a diamond. "It was a gift."

"From whom?"

Actually, that was too many questions, but Tom blamed it on the whiskey that he patiently endured and answered them. "From Hepzibah Smith."

"The heiress of Hufflepuff?"

"I deal with her for work."

Antonin's gaze cleared, his eyes bored into Tom's. The meticulous observation was uncomfortable, but Tom did not break eye contact. He wasn't going to back down. Instead, he put the whiskey glass back to his lips. The burning in his throat soothed him.

"Isn't that a little inappropriate...to accept such sinfully expensive jewellery from an old lady?"

Tom shrugged his shoulders. The purebloods were always quick to judge, but they took their time to understand, if they tried at all.

"I couldn't help it. She handed it to me here. Wouldn't it have been ruder not to accept a well-intentioned gift? Or to let it disappear in a bag?" He glanced over his shoulder but could not spy the old woman in the ballroom.

"Why did she give you anything at all?"

Tom swallowed. "It doesn't matter."

"Come on, say it."

Suddenly Antonin became jittery, his drunkenness seemed to recede. He pranced from one foot to the other, his chest thrust out like a rooster.

"It's my birthday today."

Antonin gurgled. His head twitched back and forth. Tom wondered what he was doing, but then his counterpart started retching. Before he could take a step back, Antonin had thrown up on Tom's shoes.

Disgusted, Tom looked at his feet and pulled Antonin back upright. Whenever he let go of him, he folded over so that he had to hold him steadily.

"Sorry..."

"It's all right," Tom growled. "Just don't make it worse now."

He would have liked to pull Antonin's arms away from him and sneak away, but the grip was too tight.

"All the best."

Tom nodded. With a flick of his wand he made the vomit disappear, and with a second wave his shoes were clean and dry again. He looked down at himself, where Antonin's head pressed against his chest. "You too."

"Thank you, it's just a few days late."

Who knew what mental spheres Antonin had escaped into. But he wasn't really slurring his

words, his pronunciation was clear and distinct. He didn't think, his hand stroked through Antonin's hair. The latter pressed himself tighter against Tom's chest and a longing look met his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"My birthday was just a few days ago."

"When?"

"On the twenty-fourth."

Tom raised his head and stared into the dark distance. "That's when you went to Borgin & Burke's."

"I wanted to see you."

"Why?"

"Because you hate purebloods, just like I do."

"That's not true."

Antonin put an arm's length of space between them. "It's not that important."

"It looked different back then."

He shook his head as if to get something off his chest. "Dumbledore really has a crush on you."

Tom snorted softly. "You don't say. This has been going on since we first met. He was determined from the start to make my life as difficult as possible."

"I never liked him either. Drink up and then we'll take revenge on him."

"You'd better go to bed." Nevertheless, he emptied the glass, which gave him a warm tingle in his stomach. "Stop right there."

But Antonin had already booted back into the ballroom, swaying a little, always in danger of doing a somersault forward. Tom rushed after him, but he wouldn't have thought the other one was moving so fast. His tracks were lost in the crowd. Cold sweat gathered on his forehead. A moment ago he had thought of revenge himself, but Antonin was clearly too drunk to set any intrigues in motion. In the worst case, his foolishness would backfire on Tom and he couldn't let that happen.

"Sir?" Abraxas came strutting up to him. Even though Tom had allowed himself to be addressed as Lord Voldemort by now, his counterpart had still not lost a certain air of superiority. A furious ball of anger formed inside him, but Tom swallowed it down. The smug Malfoy paused in front of him.

"Have you seen Dolohov?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing." Tom furrowed his brow. As far as he knew, the Malfoys had nothing to do with Antonin, he didn't even know why they had invited him. The rejection was mutual. "Why do you care about him?"

Abraxas growled, once again confirming Tom's suspicions. "His fiancée is looking for him."

"Fiancée?"

"Yes, there." He pointed with a nod of his head to the crowd where a young brunette woman in a red evening dress stood. "I saw that you and he were on the roof terrace."

"He was not well."

"He must have had too much to drink," Abraxas grumbled. "Those Russians..."

Tom pricked up his ears and immediately heard five people slurring their words near them. "I think this is a mass bender. Have you seen Dumbledore?"

"Dumbledore?" repeated Abraxas in amazement. "What do you want with Dumbledore?"

"Where is he? I don't have to explain myself."

"Sorry. He's entertaining a bunch of people, on the wing."

Tom growled. Dumbledore at the grand piano, twenty minutes before midnight, it couldn't get any more nightmarish. Then he thought of all the things that could have occurred to Antonin and his steps picked up speed.

The headmaster, who was leaning against the grand piano, was enveloped in thunderous laughter. Someone was even crying with joy. Tom could have thrown up. "Dumbledore, have you seen Antonin?"

Momentarily Dumbledore paused. "Who?"

"Antonin Dolohov?"

"He was just here auditioning on the grand piano. Very talented and quite drunk, the young man."

He rolled his eyes. "Where did he go?"

"To the bar, he wants to get everyone a toast."

Tom turned on his heels.

"Tom?"

Sighing, he turned and awaited Dumbledore's final meanness before setting out to save his dignity. And his own. And Antonin's. "Happy birthday, good luck and success in the new year of your life, and let young Dolohov live!"

With a throwing away hand gesture, Tom said goodbye and scurried through the crowd. As luck would have it, he arrived at the bar just as Antonin was leaving with a tray full of champagne glasses. Tom pulled him aside, knocking over just one of the glasses. Antonin looked at him in confusion.

"Are you trying to ruin me?" hissed Tom. "Put that away."

"It's just a few drops and then they feel bad for a few days. Nothing fatal if you dispense it right."

"If you dispense it right?" croaked Tom. "Are you mad?"

Slowly Antonin put the tray down on a sideboard. "I thought it was a good revenge plan, but if you're not enthusiastic about it..."

Tom growled and fished up the tray. A glance at the clock told him it was ten to midnight. In a moment everyone would be toasting. He had to hurry. "This is going to come right back on you, isn't it, and therefore on me? I can't want that."

He pressed his lips into a thin line, but Tom didn't give him a second chance. With long strides he hurried to the roof terrace, out of the corner of his eye he noticed a few heads turning towards him and that Antonin was on his heels.

"Why didn't you say you were engaged?" asked Tom as he emptied the first glass over the terrace parapet. "She's looking for you."

Antonin growled. "Just don't. Not everyone can indulge in bachelorhood like you."

"One is not obliged to marry."

"But the social pressure – and they don't even like me here. I only got invited because I'm rich as shit."

"That's a good enough reason for most people."

"And the bloody woman couldn't be dissuaded from bringing cakes for the hosts."

"That was yours?"

"Hers!"

"She's not from here, is she?"

"The fiancée my parents chose for me. They still haunt me from their graves. Fifteen years of England have not been able to save me from her. The devil always finds ways to cross a line."

Tom no longer felt like pouring out every glass – anyway, wouldn't it be conspicuous if he walked back into the ballroom with a tray of empty champagne glasses? Strange questions would be inevitable. Without further ado, he threw everything over the roof terrace railing. The Malfoys wouldn't notice that anything was missing, he was sure of that.

"Oops, Tom, so rough today." Antonin grinned.

"Fuck you." He leaned against the railing and looked down. His lips couldn't help but twist into a smile. His counterpart joined in. His ghostly laughter grew wider and wider.

They clinked glasses in the ballroom. People fell into each other's arms, couples kissed.

"Happy New Year," Antonin said, holding out a packet of cigarettes to him.

Tom sighed, but took one. One couldn't hurt. "For you too."

"Are we making up?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't know we'd had a fight."

Antonin swayed his head back and forth. "My tantrum in the shop...I should have..."

"It's all right." It really was, Tom realised. It was this sudden destructiveness that had really made Antonin interesting. "If you ever want to be at a Death Eaters meeting...I'd be glad to have someone like you on the squad."

Closer and closer their faces came. Antonin looked deep into his eyes and his hot breath brushed Tom's cheeks. "It hasn't changed. Such meetings of the oh-so-aristocratic families are not for me. I'm an outsider, despite everything. So are you, being a shop clerk at Borgin & Burke's isn't something you can earn recognition from those monsters."

Tom took a last drag and extinguished his cigarette. "Just come. You'll like what you see. I promise."

His counterpart mumbled something unintelligible. Confused, Tom shook his head. What was all this fuss about? He knew what he wanted to do next. Before he could change his mind, he pulled him closer and pressed his lips to Antonin's. They were soft. He met no resistance. Immediately Antonin gave himself to him. He returned his kiss and became even more heated. They goaded each other on and on.

"I never thought it could be so good," Antonin whispered. Tom pressed him even tighter to cover the trembling of his body. How long had this been going on? Since when could such intense reactions be elicited from him? Antonin still had his smouldering cigarette between his fingers. The smoke rose in his nose and on his back a small spot grew hotter...painfully hot. The smell of burnt cloth lulled them. Antonin had burnt a hole in Tom's expensive suit with the stalk. It didn't bother Tom. At all...it couldn't have annoyed him less. He wanted Antonin and nothing else mattered. One hundred percent Antonin would be able to replace his clothes. Surely he would do much more.

Antonin's hands began to wander. The skin over which he let his fingers circle was increasingly tingling. He hid his nose in Antonin's hair and sucked in his scent. His aftershave, mixed with cigarette smoke, smelled strong, but there was also a faint scent of pine and...something mystical...Tom was at a loss for words.

"We should..."

They should not get caught.

"Hmm."

Antonin growled reluctantly and Tom kissed him to shut him up. It was even more demanding than the last. He knew no scruples.

Footsteps sounded.

They scattered.

Albus Dumbledore peered out onto the terrace. "You two…I wouldn't have expected to find you here."

Tom clenched his hands and Antonin made a leap forward, towards the headmaster. Just in time Tom got hold of him.

Dumbledore winked at them in a way that conveyed he knew exactly what situation he had walked into. "My lips are sealed, carry on."

Already he was moving away.

Tom hated following the old fool's orders, he detested his endless speeches about love – but despite everything, or perhaps because of it? – he pulled Antonin back into his arms and lowered his head to his lips.

Antonin sighed.

As if out of his mind, Tom navigated them from the sparsely lit roof terrace into an even darker corridor of the huge Malfoy mansion. As soon as they were alone, Antonin's hands tampered with Tom's belt. Clumsily, after a few attempts, he managed to get the trousers off his hips.

The cool air licked at his thighs and a cold shiver seized him. He trembled again and again. Growling, he grasped Antonin and pulled him towards him again. Their bodies pressed against each other as if they were wrestling. The resulting warmth crept inside him. Antonin's lustful gaze goaded him even more. His movements became wilder and more choppy.

Determined, Antonin put his hand around Tom's penis.

A fervent moan escaped from his throat.

With a firm grip, Antonin rubbed the glans before letting himself sink indignantly slowly to his knees. He grinned, then closed his lips around the member. His hands were around Tom's lower back and on his buttocks. His fingernails dug into the soft skin so deeply it should be painful.

But Tom no longer felt any pain, his concentration was solely on the naughty lips and what they were doing to him. Unrestrained, he threw his head back, his eyes narrowed. His hands clawed at Antonin's hair.

The ecstasy came closer with every quivering movement. Only...only...only...

Tom gasped for air and tore his eyes open. He had to watch Antonin make himself his servant. He didn't want to forget for a second or speculate afterwards what Antonin must have looked like. His fingers tightened and his body trembled. With several, brutal thrusts, he poured himself into Antonin's mouth, who was looking up at him at that very moment.

Breathing heavily, Antonin let go of him and wiped his face. He grinned from ear to ear. His tongue slid over his lips and collected the remains of the sperm, which he swallowed without a second thought.

Gradually the fog of lust cleared. Tom felt his heart beating agonisingly against his ribs again. He writhed but overcame the twinge. "Let's get out of here," Tom ordered and his counterpart nodded eagerly.

They crept past the fine society, which by now was so drunk and full of itself that it would not even begin to notice their disappearance. As if it were a matter of course, Antonin apparated with him to his residence. The Dolohovs' mansion was deserted. They were all to themselves as Tom stripped off his clothes and did the same to Antonin.