Chapter 9 - Primorsk

Tom changed into the clothes Dumbledore had brought with him before they set off in the direction of Primorsk. They trudged through the newly fallen snow. The wind blew icy in their faces. He was glad he could pull his cloak and scarf tighter and no longer wondered where Dumbledore had got them. A spell had quickly minimised the clothes to his size. Though he was tall, he was particularly slim. Since he stuck to the new meal plan, he could even be described as a line in the landscape.

Like the head teacher he was, Dumbledore insisted that they apparate side-by-side. "You should take it easy for now - I will do the work." Invitingly, Dumbledore held out his arm to him.

Tom rolled his eyes, but hooked himself in. What else could he do? Dumbledore was resistant to advice.

Plopp. They had disappeared.

К

Калининградская область

"Damn!"

"What is it?" asked Dumbledore.

"We are wrong."

"It says Primorsk there in big letters, if I'm not entirely mistaken."

"But you do!"

"In what way?"

Breathe in. Exhale. "Yes, it says Primorsk - but just below that: Oblast Kaliningrad."

"Well?" Dumbledore frowned.

"You should have let me apparate. We want to go to Primorsk in the Leningrad Oblast."

For a brief moment, the professor's eyes narrowed. He found it hard to admit that Tom was right, Tom could see it clearly. "Maybe."

"We won't find the Dolohov residence here!"

Dumbledore's fingers clasped Tom's arm again.

Zack!

They changed the town. This time Oblast Leningrad was on the town sign and Tom decided to let the matter rest. Getting upset about Dumbledore had never brought him a step forward.

As soon as they arrived, they turned 180 degrees and moved away from the town towards the forest. Like many rich families, the Dolohovs had preferred seclusion, yet a narrow asphalted road led to the front yard of the mansion, which was about half the size of the Malfoys'. In terms of splendour, too, it must once have been several classes more modest, but no one could say for sure: the past ten years of solitude had left only reminders of the lapsed wealth.

The snow cover was torn open in some places and brown needles and leaves were peeking out from underneath. Tom was waving his arms wildly when he slipped and almost fell. Quick-wittedly, Dumbledore reached out his hand and saved him from hitting the ground.

"Thank you," he murmured and the professor smiled mildly.

"Watch out, it's not just the leaves that are wet. There are bound to be other trip hazards hidden here."

The wind whistled through the tall firs and a blackbird cried out.

"Or Antonin. We should be careful. Maybe there's still an old curse somewhere," Tom said. "And we only have one wand."

"Then why don't you pick yours up?"

Tom frowned and hissed "Old fool" already in his mind when Dumbledore actually held out his wand to him.

"You can't use it against Beriya, he made sure of that, but you will be able to defend yourself."

They strode up the stairs to the entrance. The door, once made of heavy oak, had been lifted off its hinges. Two steps further, it was leaning against the corridor wall. As Tom stepped over the threshold, he ran a finger over the wood and dust and soot gathered under the crest. The tiled floor was covered with debris and ash, the motifs no longer recognisable.

"There was a fire," Tom said to Dumbledore, who was suddenly standing close behind him.

"But only here." The professor pointed down the corridor, towards the drawing room. There, the walls were as white as the snow. Rays of sunlight filtered through the many windows of the conservatory, bouncing around the room against the black of the corridor.

The plaster had peeled off the walls, revealing bricks that no longer had clear edges. Only remnants of the colour the hallway had once been painted in could be seen. They made their way through the rubble. At the foot of the majestic staircase, Dumbledore put a hand on Tom's shoulder.

"We should check upstairs," Tom urged him, shaking off his hand as he always did. "Stop touching me." Touching exerted pressure. He hated resistance.

"Let's proceed systematically. First the ground floor, then the upper floor," said Dumbledore.

"If we split up, it will go faster."

"We shouldn't do that...not when Mr. Dolohov could be hiding somewhere here."

"I can take him, I guess you can too."

"Tom, don't be reckless."

"I never am." He had already put one foot on the first step.

"You let a murderer live with you. That was no longer reckless, but irresponsible...and immoral."

Tom snorted in frustration, but turned back and headed for the drawing room. Dumbledore followed like a shadow. He felt the gaze boring into the back of his neck. "I didn't know any better," he lied. "You saw the memory...I threw him out as soon as I found out."

"You didn't report it. Besides, you knew that he had killed and dissected a house elf at the Lestranges."

The salon was mostly clear of debris, so that one could see the floorboards. Red-brown leaves lay at their feet like a second skin. They were already moldering away and an acrid smell rose to their noses. Glaring light broke through the floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched from one wall to the other. Branches and twigs snaked through the broken panes and around the beige and white window frames. The overgrown garden had invaded the drawing room. The wind whispered through the halls. Wicker baskets lay around and the remains of a piano - that was all that was left of the furnishings.

"He had promised me that this had been a one-off," Tom lied. "The house elf, not the other thing."

"You're not seriously telling me you believed him? The boy dissected his friends' house elf, it can't have been the first time. You knew that - you're not naive. Upon my life, you don't believe in the good in people. That same evening you described this to me in impressive words."

Tom straightened his shoulders. "I taught Antonin English when he came to Hogwarts. I introduced him to the magical world, at least the British magical world. I couldn't say goodbye to the boy of those days." Critically, he eyed his counterpart.

"So Antonin is to you what you are to me?"

"You equate me with Antonin? I am not a serial killer! The fact that you couldn't trust me from the start and sneaked around me is not my fault."

Dumbledore snorted. "You can't help it? Nothing at all?"

"I was a child the very first time we met!"

"That's not the point. You always accuse me of the worst. Why are you - an intelligent young man - always so quick to pass unbalanced judgement? In other things, you are truly smarter. Your assumptions don't even correspond to the truth."

"What do you know about the truth?"

"The truth is that I kept an eye on you. I have kept an eye on you as I have kept an eye on your classmates. I hadn't told the other professors about your escapades at the orphanage and I had pleaded for you to stay at Hogwarts over the summer holidays. I introduced you to Antonin because Slughorn had been too busy to see the lost boys. In my lessons and in our word duels, which, by the way, I never cut off early, you first won the respect of your classmates. I tried to support you where I could, secretly, as you refused any overt help. What makes you think that I would have wanted to harm you?"

"What about the Chamber of Secrets? When Myrtle died?" asked Tom tonelessly. "Hardly you wanted to help me after that."

"I always believed it was an accident. You must have been terribly confused and frightened...yes, frightened, even if you don't want to acknowlegde it."

Tom turned away and scoured the wild garden. A pair of sparrows had perched on the branches. "You are an excellent storyteller. Even for me it is hard to spot your lies. But your stories have a hole, a big one: Why should my well-being have been of such high concern to you? I wasn't even in your house."

"It has nothing to do with benefit-cost considerations. If that was my priority, I wouldn't have become a teacher."

"Nobody does anything without seeking some value in return. Not even you, you of all people. You didn't even want to defend me without asking for something in return. There were hundreds of students, hundreds and hundreds, considering how long you've been teaching. You're not a Samaritan, or you wouldn't be here, you'd be at Hogwarts, helping someone who appreciates your presence."

"Tom, you're lying to yourself." Dumbledore folded his hands in front of his stomach. "You are worth my time."

"My self-worth is not the problem. I know how much I'm worth and about my talent. You won't be able to talk me into trouble, I know myself too well for that...There's nothing here, let's go upstairs."

The professor nodded and Tom hurriedly climbed the stairs to the upper floor. Their footsteps echoed in the high rooms. Several times they paused, thinking a third person was creeping around them, but they found no one. The bare rooms offered few places to hide. The mansion had not been a home to anyone for a long time.

At the end of the corridor they found a room with a spell on it. A protective spell that could only have come from Antonin. The concentration of magical particles indicated that it had only recently been cast. Dumbledore and Tom outdid each other with analysis spells and it took them twenty minutes to lift the spell together.

"We need to paint an ancient rune on the door," Dumbledore said. He was skilled in the analysis of spells and charms and had already published several essays on the subject in the 'New Journal of Magical Theories'. Tom had devoured them all, several times, but he would never admit that. The professor turned his pocket watch into a piece of chalk, which he rolled up and down between his fingers. "But which one? I can't find a clue to it."

"Then it's a password," Tom grumbled. "I have an idea, give it to me."

Dumbledore hesitated. "We don't know what will happen if we are wrong."

"Do you have a better idea?" Tom waved it off. His counterpart remained silent. "That's what I thought."

He took the chalk and scribbled something.

They stared at the door, observing every inch. Nothing happened.

The chalk crunched as Tom made a second attempt. This time he drew Cyrillic letters. A pi with a dragon's tail and a few other things. He tried out a few more.

The lock jerked, and as if pushed by a ghostly hand, the door swung open.

"What does that mean?" asked Dumbledore. He pointed to Tom's first attempt.

"It is his patronym, Alexandrovich. But the correct one was Дворжак - Dvořák."

"Did his parents name him after the composer?"

"Antonin once told me that they often listened to Dvořák's compositions. It is one of the things that first comes to his mind when he thinks of his parents. He is an extremely great sympathiser of music."

"And you?"

Tom shrugged his shoulders. "You know I can't do anything with music. I don't have to ask you if I want to hear a sermon about love and the 'little, beautiful things in life' - and I don't, don't you dare! I never do."

Dumbledore just smiled.

In the room, a ceiling painted blue with yellow stars arched above their heads. A child's room, no doubt, but nothing was left except the paint on the walls. In one corner was a sleeping bag and a fireplace, a few tins of food stood around. Pieces of parchment flew across the room at the slightest puff of air. Sighing, Tom dropped to his knees and rifled through the sheets. Antonin would not serve them anything on a silver platter, but for all that, the pieces of writing he had found were promising.

"You knew Dolohov really well, didn't you?" Dumbledore had settled down beside him and was likewise sifting through the writing. "You were friends, is that fair to say?"

Tom grumbled and reached for the next piece of paper.

"Otherwise you wouldn't have known about the Dolohovs' musical preference. How are you doing with Antonin's change over the past years?"

"I'll breathe a lot easier when it's over, when my name is cleared. That's all I have in mind. I am not a sentimental person."

"If you ever want to talk about it, just start. I always have an open ear. I know you're smiling at me for this offer, but I want to emphasise again that I'm not your enemy."

"But you certainly acted like one."

"Tom, your plans are dangerous. You have tried to turn the wizards against the Muggles before my very eyes. As someone who grew up among the Muggles, you must realise that war is hardly in your best interests?"

Tom sighed.

"Therefore, I have positioned myself against you and I will do so again. But despite these immoral intentions, I do not consider you a bad person. There is something good in everyone, just as every person, however righteous, has his dark side."

"Of course I am not a bad person! I don't want to start a war! The Muggles are a danger to the magical world. With their new weapons and sheer numbers, you can enslave the wizarding community, if not worse. You are on the side of ignorance and that makes us enemies."

"To opponents, not enemies."

"Pettifoggery!"

"I have no personal dislike for you, but I think you are suffering. You have not been able to bear your face, so you have destroyed it with dark magic. You hate your name, so you want to be called something else. All because you resemble your father."

"You are neither my pastor nor my therapist," Tom hissed. "And certainly not my conscience."

"How are you getting on with your daily injections, by the way?" interjected Dumbledore. "You seem to have come to terms with it."

"It's only a temporary solution. When we get back to England, I want to devote myself to research."

"Your curiosity is noble, Tom. I don't want to stop you, but I warn you: Stay in the realm of the legal. The damage that can be done by dark magic is not outweighed by any benefits."

"It's not about convenience for me." When would the old man finally understand that? He was not concerned with trifles, his life was at stake. "If I do not find a way to counteract the disease, my life expectancy is greatly reduced. I have nothing to expect from the Muggles, so I must approach it with magic."

"Loneliness seems to give you silly ideas -"

"Don't you dare!"

"Let me help you. You are still angry with your father, still, but because he is unreachable for you, your hatred has turned against yourself."

"You kitchen psychologist, shut up before you embarrass yourself even more!" Tom swung to his feet so he could look down at Dumbledore. "I don't feel any pain, so don't tell me I'm going to be miserable as a dog."

Dumbledore sighed and fished for a newspaper lying tattered on the floor. "Dolohov had definitely been here. The paper is from two days ago. We should lie in wait here."

"He won't come back," Tom countered, seeing his counterpart frown. "The password, 'Dvořák' - it wouldn't be a good one if he hadn't added a second security mechanism."

"I'm listening."

"Antonin has an almost unbeatable expertise when it comes to bans, and there were still some components of the ban that we didn't see through. At first I thought of red herrings, but that would be my approach, not his. Antonin is a straightforward guy through and through. He wouldn't bother with false trails and psychological tricks."

"Then you mean he wove a reporting spell with it?"

"He will not return, I am sure of that. While he probably doesn't know we are here, he knows someone is here."

Thoughtfully, Dumbledore drummed his fingers on the floor. "Where will he hide now?"

"There are countless possibilities. Antonin knows the country and the people, I'm sure his family still has old friends who might take him in."

"Then we need to search the Dolohovs' correspondence."

One room further had been the study. But the shelves were just as empty as the rest of the furniture. At a glance he realised that they would find nothing there. Nevertheless, Dumbledore pulled out the drawers of the desk and examined them. Tom waited impatiently.

The professor pulled out a letter. It did not have the typical appearance of parchment, but had been written on Muggle paper, using a typewriter. "Pierce Trading Inc LLP, they're based in England. A Muggle-run company, apparently."

"The Dolohovs had business dealings with Muggles?"

Dumbledore eyed him with raised eyebrows. "It's rare, but that's where the money is. If you want to make magical clothes, you first need conventional clothes. And Muggles usually sell it to you cheaper than their magical counterparts because they deal in larger quantities. It's not unreasonable, the Dolohovs were good businessmen."

"Do you think Antonin could have sought shelter with this company?"

"That he's back in England? I hope not, Beriya would not let you leave."

"It would be a smart move on his part. The fact that he came back here at all was more than stupid of him, not after he killed the three intelligence officers."

"Do you actually know why he did that?"

Tom shrugged his shoulders. "Out of revenge, why else?"

"And now Beriya wants to take revenge on Dolohov."

He nodded. "And Dolohov killed Stalin to avenge the death of his parents in the purges. It makes sense, it suits Antonin, believe me. He's not a moderate."

"You mean he has no self-control?"

"Yes."

"Then we should not assume that he will hide."

Tom bit his lips. Why hadn't he developed this thought further? Probably because Dumbledore was more skilled at observing and drawing conclusions from it anyway, as the psychologist he wanted to be. "Antonin is cunning and dangerous. His vendetta would not end with the murder of Stalin."

"If that wasn't his final, then...Tom, do you think he would try to kill Beriya?"

"Beriya ordered the murder of his family. He was more directly involved than Stalin had been. Moreover, Stalin was not a magician, but Beriya is - Antonin works his way up from the bottom and Beriya is above Stalin for him."

"If this is true, then it is not only Beriya who is in danger. What was to stop him from killing the rest of the Politburo? Khrushchev, Malenkov and Molotov. Even if they didn't take part in the assassination and didn't give the order, perhaps Dolohov sees them as further stops on his vendetta?"

"That would not be out of the question. We have to talk to Beriya, immediately."